A Decoding of the Heart
by Textualsphinx
Summary: It's the prequel to the sequel of another writer's fic/Of a pairing (Snape 'n Granger) that still makes some people SICK/ Dare to visit Snape's strange quarters almost sunk in Hogwart's Lake/ Where he patterns out sad days observed by Salomé, his snake.
1. Prologue

A Decoding of the Heart (Prologue)  
  
Disclaimers :   
JK Rowling created the Harry Potterverse ; Hogwarts and its inhabitants all belong to her. As she's not letting them out for another adventure until next year, I'm giving them some exercise - for pleasure not profit. Salomé the Snake is my own invention, the latest addition to Snape's Menagerie. Snape's beard/goatee /moustache may well belong to every other Sevromancer (and the American illustrator) but certainly does NOT belong here, or to me : it is Banished from this fic, understood ? Severus' forehead is in fact the property of Mr Sphinx, since he asked me (a tad plaintively) whether my favourite fantasy-figure bore any resemblance to him whatsoever.   
  
Author's Notes :  
First, an apology for the long absence. Been in computer exile for over five months, working on an exhibition and series of public art projects that demanded all my creative resources. I banned myself from writing, just in case it robbed my real work of necessary sparkle. To J L Matthews, Morrighan, Lilith Morgana and Winged Keys, huge thanks for the sustained and lively correspondence that kept me going in the gloomy Cybercafé‚ I frequented.   
This story owes its existence to Morrighan, who suggested that I write a prequel to 'Letter from Exile One Merciful Morning', itself an alternative ending to Lupinlover's Snape-Hermione romance 'Beyond the Silver Rainbow.' Whilst I did fit my plot to Lupinlover's, in all the other respects the works don't match; besides, having more than once accused other S-H writers of Narrative Cheating (Hermione in love with Severus before the story starts so you don't have to explain it or make it convincing ) I felt obliged to write my own version.   
My word, it IS difficult, isn't it ? Oh well, you can amuse yourselves watching a tormented Sphinx go through all manner of literary contortion acts to square her political/moral beliefs with a female student-male teacher romance. It's such a strain I've pulled all my cerebral muscles into lumps that can't think straight. Here's a titchy prologue (we're talking brief chapter postings) to show I still exist. The Explanation proper begins next chapter, mind.  
I've also, in this interim, read far more Sevromances than are good for me. Any resemblance to Lilith Morgana's 'No Angel' is not intentional, but has certainly become recognisable. Quite uncannily, all our Severus stories have similar dynamics though they were written independently. We have agreed that twenty-first century feminist minds are bound to think alike, and are happy to deconstruct the patriarchal myth of Authorial Originality for anyone who'll listen (phew, thought not. Actually, all you need to know can be found in the book 'Gender and Genius' by Christine Battersby). Though the pacing of our stories is similar (SLOW - for instant shagging go elsewhere) and they are both post-Voldemort, I've steered mine away from her realism, and decided to tackle the inevitably Redemptive role of Hermione head-on. Very head-on, even though I'm an Atheist.  
You may wish either to bless or curse the brilliant and insightful Morrighan, who hath delivered you a prequel but delayed the sequel thereby.  
This all happens, not in an Alternative Universe, but a Slightly Dislocated one. For reasons that will become clearer in the sequel, this needs to take place in the academic year of 1999-2000. Hermione, Harry, Ron et al are in their 8th year at Hogwarts, the war with Voldemort having delayed their NEWTs. All their year have stayed on to make up for lost time (Literary Contortion no. 1 : Hermione is eighteen going on nineteen). Here, Voldemort's first defeat was in 1982, not 1981.  
If you haven't read "Letter from Exile", read it before this. In plot terms this comes first, but hows and whys are more important than whats, and "Letter", which wrote itself in a week, is more inspired. It'd be a shame if you read this and decided not to bother with its predecessor. A kindly reviewer told me she'd be happy with something 'half as good' as that - so here it is.  
  
  
  
Dead in the centre of the ancient cathedral at Chartres there is a labyrinth.  
  
It is not in the least a frightening one, being neither underground nor made of walls. It is, indeed, no more than a diagram in black-and-white mosaic, designed by a nun some seven centuries ago. Compacted into a circle five-and-a-half metres across, its curved, double-backing path is exceedingly narrow. It falls into four distinct sections; only when you have covered every part of the track, switching from one wedge to the next in semi and quarter-circle swathes, do you reach the dead centre and find the straight line back to the world's edge.  
  
Yes, the world's ; for despite its transparency, the readability of the path's progress, the labyrinth seems to be more than itself. It is not that it provokes a desire to uncover some hidden meaning - no doubt that died with the thirteenth century nun - but that every person who walks it applies it as a template to life as they see it and the world that they know. It is an infinitely re-usable, adaptable sign, suited to pilgrims of any sect.  
  
That, certainly, is the view of Frère Laurent, who never tires of watching visitors try the labyrinth between noon and one-thirty each day (except Sunday) the only time it is opened. There is no ritual involved, yet the random individuals who can be found with heads down, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, are drawn into a casual unity that Frère Laurent finds endlessly pleasing. It is as if the labyrinth has settled the differences between them, demanding of each the same : patience, concentration and the ability to construct significance. For all that, it is the residual distinctiveness of each journey that fascinates our monk. Some people would clearly never make good pilgrims : they take short cuts across the rings instead of following them round, and exit any old how before reaching the middle. He imagines that such people get little out of life, though they expect to be given much. Others treat the labyrinth as a puzzle, constantly referring to the little photograph in their guide book so that they retain a sense of the whole while their eyes glaze over looking at the busy monochrome at their feet. Still others take as long as possible, as if each turn of the path represented a like change in their own lives. They pause in places, causing Frère Laurent to wonder what catastrophe or triumph they are recalling.   
  
Youthful visitors approach the centre eagerly, as if it represents the fulfillment of love or ambition. The elderly do so with trepidation, as if it symbolises death. In truth, it could be either.  
  
There are only two people on the labyrinth today - no surprise : the Easter holidays are over. It is the Saturday after Pâques but before the cluster of Bank Holidays in early May. They are obviously a couple. You can always tell, even when the labyrinth is crowded. (People who are alone keep their eyes fixed on the ground. Those who are together make eye contact across the circle, checking each others' progress.) Their serious air and sober clothes suggest they are among the many scholars who visit Chartres, except that the frequency with which their eyes meet shows Frère Laurent that they are as much concerned with reading each other as with deciphering the labyrinth.   
  
It is hard to tell their ages. The man is clearly older, but has the thinness, and occasionally awkwardness, of adolescence. His features are overly sharp, and his excessive pallor all the more noticeable for the dark eyes and blue-black hair. Frère Laurent decides he is at least thirty-three, like Notre Seigneur when he died, for, he fancies, the man would look just like that emaciated effigy of Our Lord if only he had blue eyes, blond hair and a beard. The woman could be anything from sixteen to twenty-six. Her skin has the translucency of youth; she is freckled and rosy, with a girlishly snubbed nose and round eyes of, to be honest, a sludgy, indeterminate brown. It is her manner - poised, decisive - that gives her the authority of someone older; and her hair banishes girlishness : a short, geometric cut that reminds Frère Laurent of the scandal his nephew caused in the town's municipal gardens : the lad's avant-garde approach to topiary was much admired by Chartres' Adjointe Culturelle - but she was the only one. No-one else protested when the bushes were summarily cropped back to traditional lumps.  
  
The couple have nearly completed their journey. They set off in opposite directions, but kept pace with one another all the way through to ensure they reached the middle together. Now they are circling each other tightly, hardly breaking eye-contact - a stately dance rather than miniature pilgrimage. When they achieve the centre they pause, locked implacably in a mutual gaze, but are too respectful of the place to kiss. They seem to be exchanging some kind of vow.   
  
Suddenly they relax into smiles and saunter out, drifting over to the souvenir stalls by the West tower, where they pay thirty francs for the right to climb over three hundred steps to the top of the Cathedral. Frère Laurent frowns. There is something odd about them that goes beyond the age difference and (judging by their accents when they asked about the tower) Britishness. Something uncanny he can't quite put his finger on. They have a furtive look, as if they are involved in some secret deal, or are kids playing truant. (That is precisely what they are doing, but Frère Laurent can hardly know that.)  
  
After half an hour, they still have not reappeared. Of course, most people linger over the tower. There are so many fascinating views. You can peer through to the interior of the Cathedral, get vertigo looking down at the flying buttresses and see all the carvings close up, marvelling at how stone can be delicate as lace. Many couples stop to scratch in their names and a date. That annoys Frère Laurent. The medieval masons were content to remain unnamed, leaving as their mark collective, un-attributed beauties. These tourists must needs tell you that they, personally, Were Here in disfiguring letters that damage the building. He decides to follow the pair up the tower. He climbs quickly, puffing for breath - it is incredibly hot for April - and he catches sight of them on a circular walkway right near the top. They are looking across to the other tower, perfectly still in the shimmering heat.  
  
Then they disappear.   
  
Frère Laurent blinks. He was not imagining it and they could not have simply slipped behind a pillar. He definitely saw them in front of one that, progressively, grew more visible as the two became translucent and vanished. He flops against the parapet. He has never been one of those 'religieux' who are subject to visions, and he has no intention of starting now. He grips the stone firmly, as if to reassure himself that he is solid - and notices something odd.  
  
The ledge he is touching usually bears a particularly inept incision telling us that Jean-Pierre and Marie-Celeste were there in 1973. Now, instead, the same legend is carved in tiny gothic script, and the original graffiti nowhere to be seen. Frère Laurent spends the next hour missing lunch and checking the graffiti up and down the deserted tower. Nothing has been effaced, but every recorded presence changed to that same, delicate carving. There is one that is new. Lined up under an especially diabolical gargoyle he finds a minuscule rectangle, like the letter of an illuminated manuscript. It contains an ingeniously rendered lion and snake over the year : 2000 AD.  
  
There is only one explanation. He knows the transformations have only just appeared - he walks up the tower every morning for exercise, and would have noticed. No ordinary human beings could have chiselled all those names so perfectly in under an hour.  
  
Sorcellerie.  
  
Frère Laurent is not unduly perturbed. He knows of these things, and credits their existence just as he credits the existence, somewhere, of angels (though he's never met one personally.) Besides, this is definitely not magie noire. Quite the opposite : a modest, minor, considerate miracle. Why, if the two were to reappear in the Cathedral right now, he would personally go and Bless them. It has been a year of minor miracles; or rather, since last June, a period in which a series of evils evaporated, just like that. He remembers Easter '99 with a shudder. Even taking into account the notorious incompetence of the French police, there had been an unprecedented number of unsolved murders, rapes and possible suicides. In the confession box people had whispered to him continually of nightmares, of sick fantasies they never knew they had in them, and how they recurred no matter how many beads they counted off on their rosaries. Then it had all stopped; and every ordinary, happy event had taken on the aspect of enchantment. He can't help connecting, somehow, the cessation of unexplained terror with the unexplained presence of these two sorcerers.  
  
He makes his way back down to the nave. His stomach is rumbling, and he'll have to wait a good five hours for supper (a moderate but tasty affair, for this is France and even a friar must eat, especially as it affords him a direct pleasure, not one acquired second hand from the imagined lives of others). Yet nothing can spoil his mood. The fragile labyrinth is now roped off. He wonders why the magical lovers walked it, and what they thought about when they did.  
  
You, readers, may imagine more easily than Frère Laurent the thoughts of the pair as they snaked through that sacred maze. The little world they come from is likewise carved into quarters: four Houses, not alike in dignity, so they were charmed that, contrary to what first appears, the sections interlock, are one and the same path. For Hermione, the startling but orderly twists and turns underline the ever-intriguing gap between one's immediate perception of things and the understanding that comes with time and distance. Less than a year ago, setting out on this path (so to speak) she would never have guessed who she would find at the centre. Not simply knowledge, but the processes of acquiring it, fascinates her. For Severus, it is the exhaustiveness and repetition of the labyrinth that delights. It offers a multitude of chances to cover the same ground, and when you think you are almost finished, that there is no turning back, the path flips you to the outer rings and you are allowed to start again.  
  
For me, the labyrinth is my only excuse. How Hermione Granger ever came to love Severus Snape, and he her, I can render convincingly only within such an artifice : one peculiar and complex enough to account for strange confrontations between desire and destiny ; one befuddling enough to give the impression of openness whilst actually conniving to deceive. We might as well confess, all of us, that we make indifferent pilgrims. I cannot pretend that we shall walk the whole labyrinth, that I shall never, by some narrative sleight of hand, nudge the characters across to the middle if the readers' desires (or mine) insist upon it. Nor would it be beyond me to snatch certain persons away from the dead centre, on the pretext that we have reached one of those hairpin bends that takes you back to the world's edge.   
  
Character is but one of the Fates, the others being the reader and the writer. In the world of fiction, these sisters rule as a Trinity, or Triumvirate; and though Character has traditionally been accorded the most power (and Reader the least) most people concede that things are more egalitarian now. If desires and destinies are not in accord, all three are to blame.   
  
So, let us go back to the beginning of the path, to a sweltering day in late June, in London, in 1999.   
  
It was Honours Day at the Ministry, and the speech was getting long.  
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Ha - bet you weren't expecting that! (unless I've emailed you my angst.) Next Chapter (1) - Severus-n-Sirius confrontation plus very odd scene in a hairdressers' (maybe); why Hermione ditches Ron; Salomé the snake's chat with Harry and a return to ordinary past tense narrative.  
  
Brownie points for spotting the two refs to Romeo and Juliet, and knowing which novelist said "Character is fate."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter One: Vanity Fair (corrected)

A Decoding of the Heart  ****

Title: A Decoding of the Heart 

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Chapter One – Vanity Fair

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Author's Notes :

All the chapter titles are from John Bunyan's _The Pilgrim's Progress_ _(from this World to the Next)_. Vanity Fair is where the pilgrims Christian and Faithful are arrested (and Faithful executed) for refusing to buy anything or admire the people and things on show. 

If you know where the verse heading the chapter comes from, I'm truly impressed and will email you a preview of the Slytherin Gift to Virgins scene of the sequel, Ring of Truth. (ETA, er, some time in 2002)

FFnet has gone and trimmed reviews displayed to 15, so I am in the embarrassing situation of not being able to thank all you reviewers by name and acknowledge the many who got both refs to Romeo and Juliet - Friar Lawrence and "Two houses both alike in dignity", and she who found a third in the Pilgrim motif. Many of you also recognised Thomas Hardy's "Character is fate" (and told me more than I knew myself of its classical origins). Thanks to your erudition, I've been able to cut that quotation in a re-edit and go straight in with the 'personalised misquote'. Much more elegant.

Thank-you to PL for the recent rhyming request to continue (such a relief to read rhymes that scan) to Morrighan for various emails, to Lilith Morgana and Blackletter for the help with Latin. (Blackletter - don't follow my example - please hurry with chapter 3 of _Fade to Black_!) Much credit to J.L. Matthews for tips on storytelling, on exploiting the Ministry's setting I chose, and for turning up some amazing stuff about Chartres that certainly wasn't in my guide book, and which I'm gradually working in. There's one idea pinched from the "The Craft". (_Yesss!_ – I can do Popular Culture!)

Sirius and Remus fans - please fetch yourselves a Calming Down potion, because you won't like what I've done with them.

I grovel before you for making you wait. I lost my notes, got VERY stuck on a RL essay for an art catalogue, and still have doubts about what I'm putting before you, especially as ever more silly ideas, that one writes and then represses, mushroom over time. 

Actually, this chapter, when finished, will still have some very peculiar things in it, but let's hope I'll, er, pull them off. It meanders even more than usual, as I had to get a lot of background in through dialogue (the curse of expostion…) I hope to get the rest up-including the much trumpeted Salomé (and this bit more polished) within a month. I wouldn't have posted such a rough piece of indulgence - for there are MANY themes stated that are to be followed up - but I was BEGGED. 

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Disclaimer: JKR is Mistress of the Harry Potter universe. She said "Let there be Hogwarts" and there was Hogwarts. I'm just the Snake who Can't make Cash.

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Why tell you me of moderation? 

The grief is fine, full, perfect that I taste,

And violenteth in a sense as strong

As that which causeth it.

It was Honours day at the Ministry, and the speech was getting long. 

Voldemort being dead, his Death Eaters (mostly) executed, all that remained for ever-surviving Fudge was to congratulate his Ministry (and those working outside of, but effectively _for_, said Ministry) on all their hard work and a triumphant Victory.

The largest hall of the building was packed. Its robust, institutional air charms did little, though, to mask the sweaty odour of bored bodies, nor the slow-released breaths of the angry. 

But it was Honours Day at the Ministry, and people must behave, and Cornelius was in his element. Posthumous awards came first. With impeccable political correctness, the Minister read verses by a Muggle for the elegy :

"Fear no more the heat of the sun, 

Nor the furious Winter's rages.

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages."

Harry, Hermione and Sirius, stationed in the front row, remembered Remus. 

" ..... come to dust."

Victory is too expensive. You pay up anyway, but no First Class Orders of Merlin in the world can make you believe you got a bargain.

"Fear no more the frown o' the great, thou art past the tyrant's stroke."

Fudge vocally underscored these lines. Sitting many rows back, Severus Snape thought well he might. It was not the aptest choice of poem, what with the golden lads, lovers and chimney sweepers. 

"Fear not slander, censure rash..."

Some chance. 

No arguing with a quiet consummation and a renownéd grave; and certain lines of the verse were to stay with him in the months to come.

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Thou thy worldly task hast done.

First an echo, then a voice; now like his own, now like one's long dead. It would sound from within, cleaving one section of his brain from another. 

"...consign to thee and come to dust". _Consign to me and come to dust._

He always did obey orders. Fudge began to read the names. Whenever Snape had imagined a victory like this, a day like this, he had always imagined he would not be there, except in name, on a list like this. 

At least he'd settled things with Lupin : there was an almost-friend who ought to be here. He'd transformed the man at the moment of death so that he wouldn't be buried as a wolf. Not many could have pulled that one off. He held onto Lupin's grateful gaze like a talisman, but - _it should have been you: an undeniable settling of debt. No credit, but account paid. _ The proper full stop to his life's sentence.

It took a long time to read the list. Many were surprised, towards the end of the alphabet, not to hear "Weasley". It was one of those unexpected, miraculous instances of joy in dark days that not one Weasley was dead. There they all sat, in persistent, red-haired glory.

Except they were very near the back - which rather clouded Hermione's pleasure in being at the front. 

She was furious, on Ron's behalf especially. Of course, you couldn't _measure_ friendship, or that stout good humour that had kept Harry going, but there were recognisable, rewardable deeds. It was Ron who, when the siege broke, had confused key Death Eaters by taking on Harry's guise. _Don't think about all that. What should it matter if Fudge punished popular Arthur Weasley through his family? We're alive, we won. It's only a sodding medal._

And she'd always cared about medals.

Next to her, Harry fidgetted. So many words, and his speech would have to cap them all because he was the Grand Finale. Sirius, sensing his anxiety, gave his arm an avuncular squeeze. Harry relaxed and grinned. His godfather Sirius - handsome, sparkling, _vindicated _Sirius - could walk in truth at last.

Albus Dumbledore, up for his third First Class Order of Merlin, was not in the front rows. He had chosen to sit with Severus. The Minute's Silence done, he murmured :

" I reminded him not to call you up. He said he wouldn't. "

" Thank you. I appreciate it. "

The honours would be given in reverse order. Severus felt himself drift off towards the end of the Commendations. Some alumni from his own House - not as many as there could be - nor in those posthumously honoured. Their deaths were doubtful. When Aurors blasted a Slytherin family of Death Eaters, how could they tell who was on the right side, who on the wrong ? Of necessity, one fought the good fight under cover of Darkness ; and Death Eaters finding a 'traitor' would slander their relative not to Voldemort, but to the Ministry. It kept them free from suspicion on both sides. 

Who will account for the Slytherin dead ? 

If he named names, how many would believe him ? 

Perhaps beyond Death all truths are known, and Recognition comes to stare in the eyes of the blind. _Don't be so bloody sentimental. The Bad ended memorably, the Good ended unmemorably: that is what 'Slytherin' means..._

" Severus Snape."

" Damn the man - I'm sorry, Severus. "

" No matter."

With dozens of eyes needling his back, Severus stepped up to receive his lesser honours.

" For your services in Intelligence, for invaluable _inside_ information.. " 

Fudge's eyes flickered along his arm. _Say something, say anything._

" Well, this rather blows my cover. "

Dumbledore gave a supportive little chuckle. (As would others, had Snape signalled his irony with the subtlety of a whacked Bludger.)

" Let us hope you won't need to honour me with the same job, again, Minister. "

Fudge's reddened, but only slightly. 

" It is a wonderful thing, " (tone entirely flat) " a very - wonderful thing - to know that you won't. That Voldemort is never coming back ; not tomorrow, nor the next day…nor the day after that...nor for any years... like those in which we waited for him to rise again and terrorise us...to come."

He ground to a halt. 

Hermione eyed him, surprised. She'd never heard the Potions master say anything inconsequential. She adjusted her spectacles - a less innocent gesture than it looked. It made the lenses zoom into close-up without anyone's realising. (Ron had teased her that she only wore glasses to look Seriously Intellectual - but shut up when she showed him what they could do). 

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Quote something, anything.

" However...however, we cannot be complacent. Voldemort embodied an evil that could rise again without him... As - as Camus said, the plague bacillus never dies. It lurks, waiting to destroy our - our happy cities. It kills the rats first, and no-one takes heed because... they don't care for rats. So then it comes for us all. " 

Harry and Sirius glanced at Hermione, who, not having read _La Peste_, shrugged. Sirius shook his head at her with mock disapproval and a wink. 

She returned to scrutinizing Snape. His hands were shaking lightly, and he had broken out in an unpleasant-looking sweat. Well, if you're stupid enough to wear black in heat like this...His eyes did not connect to his audience, but stared as if down a very long, very straight road.

__

Tomorrow, the next day, the day after that. Consign to me....

" Our task... " 

- _but not for you..._

" ... must now be to prevent the conditions...the inhumanity...that allow the plague to spread. "

" Rich coming from him, " whispered Sirius. 

" Ssh. "

Too late. Severus had caught Sirius' eye and taken in its glint of mockery. It said: the war is over - and so's the truce. 

" But... Headmaster Dumbledore can explain all that more eloquently than I...I, I want to acknowledge the people whose information helped me, who worked..in the same way, but are not - saved - to tell the tale. I knew them ...a little. "

He intoned half-a-dozen names. _John Warrington, Albertina Nott, Vivian Flint, Leon Rosier, Catriona McNair... _ Fudge pinned the medal on him briskly before he could say any more, and Snape stepped down.

When he reached his seat, he found Albus half risen.

" Out - now. Come on. "

" Don't be ridiculous. "

" You're about to faint. Don't _fuss_. "

The word was well-chosen. Severus, refusing Dumbledore's escort, stumbled out of a side- door with a quip that he'd miss Potter's big moment.

Fudge started on the Second Class Honours, by far the biggest group. Hermione, her glasses readjusted, stared down at her - fists. Perhaps it was the heat that made you slide off into all sorts of memories, for she found herself thinking of all times in the last three years that had made her despise Fudge. If he'd only listened - or rather, not denied what he'd heard - the war could have been won within a year. Six months - _six damn months_ - before he fully mobilised the Ministry.

It kills the rats first, but no-body takes heed because they don't care for rats.

Whom did Professor Snape mean by 'rats' ? Cedric Diggory aside, Voldemort had targetted only pure Muggles the first months. The Wizarding Press had either not reported the deaths or attributed them (relying on most sorcerers' haziness about ceasefires and Peace talks) to the IRA. Hermione made a mental note to rectify the disgraceful matter of Camus. Didn't he write after the Second World War ? The unheeded rats must have symbolised the Jews. She tried to remember Muggle History lessons, but they'd only just beheaded Charles the 1st by the time she got her Hogwart's Letter. _Concentrate_. Was it the sudden freedom of not having to focus on the battle that had her mind wandering all over the place ? 

Fudge quickened the pace a little. He wanted to get to Harry before lunchtime. 

Now that she thought about it, the first time Hermione saw through Fudge had been after the Triwizard Tournament, when Professor Snape had thrust his exposed Mark right under the idiot's nose. The wasted gesture had surprised her. There had been calls for Fudge's resignation, but he resisted them long enough to rise to the Emergency and keep his post. He would undoubtedly go in the next election, but that was eighteen months away. 

Maybe Snape was ill. 'Absent' many times during the war, on each return he'd seemed more bleached out than ever, yet continued as if nothing had happened. Whatever he'd got up to must have caught up with him now, like the migraine you hold off until Exams are over. Ron always joked that Voldemort brought out the best in Snape. Crisis, real, serious crisis, sucked up the spiteful energy that made any dealings with him a torture. Drained to neutrality, he'd manifested a relentless, reassuring efficiency during the long siege. (New students, bemoaning his lack of personality, were told to count themselves lucky never to have known the one lost.) None regretted the change, least of all the three of them, the only students, she imagined, who knew his secret. They had grudgingly admired the games-playing and surreptitious riddling with which Snape got certain students to mistake his loyalties and betray their plots. Malfoy, before he vanished, must have been thoroughly taken in. 

The Potions master deserved better. And those people he named too, probably. She twiddled her locket. Ron deserved better. 

__

This is not fair.

Outside the hall, in a cramped area that turned out not to be the main lobby, Severus was trying to find an exit. The only one on offer was down that blasted corridor of Mirrors. Mock Versailles, as it was dubbed. He braced himself.

" The side-parting's definitely a mistake... "

" Haven't you tried the _Natural Magic_ range, dear ? Works wonders... "

" Nice Robes - Shame about the Face ! "

A few of the Designer Mirrors, being into retro-chic, picked up the tune. If he hadn't been in the Ministry, he'd have smashed them. Not that he shouldn't be grateful to Mirrors. He'd learnt how to sneer from them, after all.

" Why does he always wear black. "

" Does he ? "

" Yeah - saw him here years ago. "

"Never left off his school uniform..."

" So why _do_ you always wear black ?"

__

I'm in mourning for my life.

The tinkles of laughter cut off, though he didn't think he'd spoken out loud. He emerged into the Ministry Courtyard, found a prim little bench to slump on, and put his head between his knees to get the blood back.

His departure had not gone not unnoticed. Cramped beside an exit, without a seat, Rita Skeeter had turned a fresh page in her notebook. " _Lies, Spies and Sacrifice_" marked the Quick-Quotes Quill. Severus Snape ... no longer Classified Information. She should go after him, but could she trust her Quill to note Harry's intonation and expression all by itself? Who but she could do _The Boy Who Won_ justice ? Later, later – corner Snape at the Buffet. Dumbledore won't let him scive off the celebrations. 

" Caroline Vector " called Fudge.

Professor Vector (last call for Second Class Honours) garnered a mixture of envious and lustful looks as she swept towards Fudge. She had dark blue eyes and molten-bronze hair pouring to her waist. She grinned at Hermione when she turned to the audience. 

__

She really doesn't mind that I got more of the credit.

" I hope this means that funding for Arithmancy Reseach will improve, Minister..."

It was thanks to Professor Vector that Hermione had developed her complex Arithmantical enchantment - " Mione's Love-trap " to her friends - that conquered the Dementors. She had the inspiration from the binary principle of Muggle computing, where everything is either a One or a Nought : if the Dementors were absolute Negation, how could they be reversed, _switched_, into absolute Affirmation ? With a warped leap of the imagination (of which none had ever thought her capapable) Hermione landed on the idea of making the Dementors fall in love with - and Kiss - each other. It had obsessed her for the whole of her fifth and sixth years. Indeed, the memory she used to cast a Patronus was the staff meeting she'd asked Dumbledore to call for her, where her explanation of her brainwave and request for help had made everyone's mouths drop open (even Professor Snape's - who'd stubbornly maintained until then that Granger was less than the sum of all her reading). They considered each professor's branch of magic in turn. It had boiled down to stoppering Lust in a bottle whose contents, in the manner of Mustard Gas, would evaporate on contact with air; or an enchantment that could be pre-set using Arithmantical formulae. To Hermione's relief, the Gas idea was found to have too many uncertainties, and to be too reliant on the Aurors' throwing the vials at the right moment (and distance.) She far preferred working with endlessly generous Vector, who helped her calculate the connection between the absolute noughts of the Dementors and the infinity signs in the preliminary spell that activated the enchantment. 

It had worked like the proverbial clockwork : Voldemort's plan to destroy untold-of amounts of Benign energy by having his Dementors infiltrate Europe's greatest Cathedrals was uncovered. Traps were duly laid at York, Canterbury, Vatican, Rouen and Chartres. The Dementors were stable in number, for they neither died nor reproduced - and fortunately, their numbers were even. Turning to each other in a rush of desire, the Dementor couples sucked and exchanged each others' collection of souls, until the stronger of the two simply absorbed their lover completely. Then the victor would seek out another mate. The encounters continued until only one pair remained, who were evenly matched. 

Somewhere in the bowels of Azkaban, sealed in a crystal cell, the last of the Dementors were locked forever in an embrace of manic joy.

The mesmerised guards had already reported a change in their appearance. Intense happiness from their accumulated souls, endlessly given and taken, nourished their foul bodies. They were starting to look human. Half a century on, visitors to the Azkaban Museum would marvel at those exquisite creatures (christened, though genderless, Adam and Eve) who beggared anyones' belief that they had once been the foulest beings to walk the Earth.

None could deny it: young Hermione Granger fully deserved her First Class Order of Merlin.

As Vector stepped down, Sirius Black stepped up. The looks of lust and envy swapped places too.

Rita sighed. Let the younger journalists get their quills into Sirius. To do her justice, it was a sigh as melancholy as it was impatient, for her only son was on the list of the dead. To do her justice, she sighed because she, too, was disgusted with the Ministry, and with herself for the inter-war articles that had earned her money to support the dead son, but likewise sold off her seriousness as a journalist. She had been a serious journalist, hadn't she ? She'd covered the trials of '82, and been respected - but not paid much - for it. Vulgarity pays. Oh yes, it pays. Perhaps she owed the Dementor-girl a favour for forcing her return to Proper Reporting - but it had been too late. When, with Granger's permission, she published the real story of Cedric Diggory's death and Voldemort's resurrection, no-one believed her. She'd done a tad too much Human Interest by then, and her style was too recognisable to use a pseudonym. 

Frankly, she wasn't sure what she'd do now. _Never get trapped between genres_. She didn't bother with Dumbledore, but took a few notes on doughty old Arabella Figg. What she needed was a _long, serious_ profile.

" Hermione Granger ".

The Weasleys craned their necks to see their future wife/sister-cum-daughter-in-law receive her Honours.

No-one walked up to the platform. 

" Hermione Granger ?"

The Dementor-girl had slipped out, presumably to the lavatory, just before Arabella Figg had been called. She had not come back. Harry and Sirius shook their heads at Fudge's look of inquiry. She was called again.

" Ahem. Chantal Johnson. "

Trusting an infallible journalistic hunch, Rita crept out at the back. Everyone would write about Potter! The Granger girl, with all her (maddening) priggishness, could prove a much more _heavyweight_ (and novel) subject...

***************** 

There was dust in the unmoving air, and the courtyard offered little shade, but Severus decided he was not going to be sick. He was going to get up, drink some water, and go back to hear Harry Potter speak. The headmaster, for all his concern, would approve. 

It was alarming how rapidly the euphoria of victory had worn off. This was worse than '82. There would be no more chances to prove himself - he had personally made sure of that. He stuffed the medal in his pocket. That's it. That's your lot. Be thankful it wasn't less.

__

Get up. Go down that bloody corridor. Go into that hall and sit still like a Good Boy.

His resolution was interrupted by running footsteps and whistles from the Mirrors. A youth in red robes was hurtling down Mock Versailles towards him, but turned off left before reaching the glass doors. He got to his feet, wondering whether to investigate, when the last person he wanted to see came puffing up to him.

__

Come back Voldemort - you missed one.

" Did you happen to see anyone come that way just now, Professor Snape ? "

He wondered why she was being so deferent.

" No. "

He wouldn't deliver anyone into the clutches of Skeeter . Rita, narrow-eyed, parked herself on the bench." As a matter of fact, I was hoping I might run into you. That was a very interesting speech. Quite a subtext, you might say... "

" I'm sure you might say anything, Skeeter, but right now I'm going back to hear Harry Potter's big number. "

Rita laughed.

" I think his actions are more eloquent than his words - don't you? "

" No comment ".

" The words " no comment " are a very powerful spell where my Quill's concerned. A powerful _multi-purpose_ spell... "

Severus seethed. 

" Tell me, Professor Snape, do you feel insulted by our Revered Minister for Magic ? After all the risks you took - your great _personal risks_ - if I remember Dumbledore's words..." 

She must have eighteen years' history in her bloody Notepad.

" How does it _feel _ to have the Minister-who-messed-up belittle your careful orchestration of certain events ? " 

" Better than snogging a Dementor. " 

He made for the glass doors. She trotted after. It occured to him that the Mirrors might give her very juicy copy.

" I couldn't swear to it, but I'm sure I _heard_ someone rush past the courtyard exit. Why don't you try the river ? It's where most people escape for some air. "

The Thames was indeed just beyond the Ministry gates, and Rita, reckoning that one Snape soundbite was all she'd get in a day, went and melted her way through them.

Mock Versailles had no turnings off to left or right. Looking curiously about him, Severus began to walk the gauntlet again. Half the mirrors took up the 'Nice Robes' chant and asked how he animated his cloak. Almost half the others were the kind of mirrors that flatter you.

" Ahh, leave him alone - he's in mourning for his life... "

__

Almost half. He stopped before a silent Mirror on the left. The kindly Mirror facing it murmured sympathies to his back, and for a few moments he saw his own reflection, horribly and infinitely repeated.

" You can come out now - she's gone."

His reflection became translucent as another solidified, merged with his and replaced it - the red-robed youth, who wore spectacles and smiled slightly.

" Thanks _awfully_ for covering up for me, Professor Snape. "

Those, unmistakably, were the prissy accents of Hermione Granger.

" No need for thanks. I didn't recognise you. "

Hermione and yesterday's Haircut stepped out of the mirror.

" Well, you still got rid of her. Was she bugging you too ? "

" Only in the vaguest sense. You should have squashed her when you had the chance. "

" How did you know -? "

" All the staff knew - and agreed with me. Except the Headmaster. He thinks Skeeta has her uses. "

" Then he understands a lot of things we mere mortals don't. "

It seemed a little odd to Severus that the Girl-Who-Redeemed-the-Dementors should think of herself as a mere mortal, but the thought did not register on his face. It also seemed a little odd to be in conspiracy with the Gryffindor Prig.

" You should get back into the hall, Granger. Fudge'll be calling you up any second."

" He already has. I decided not to - _oh no_ _!_"

She retreated into the mirror - and Severus, no more willing to encounter a frustrated Rita Skeeter returning from the smelly Thames, did likewise.

It was too good an opportunity to miss.

" Decided to age gracefully have we ? You should wear navy more often - it _really_ suits you ". Hermione stole her Mirror's flat Lewisham purr. 

Severus was landed with South Yorkshire Camp.

" You were right to get rid of those curls, duck. It's the natural look that's in. I'd lose the bottled brass too, if I was you. " (He couldn't help wincing at the 'was'). 

They waited a good half-minute for the click of Rita's heels to disappear into the main hall before emerging, slightly unnerved by the experience of looking into a mirror and seeing nothing but an endless corridor of empty planes. It was for a few moments only that Hermione Granger and Severus Snape caught their reflections - superimposed and infinitely repeated - in the Ministry's Mirrors.

Which, it mercifully turned out, went silent when people were engaged in conversation. 

" Did you say you _walked out_ on Fudge ? "

(Neither were of a giggly enough temperament to acknowledge the joke they'd just played.) 

" Not exactly walked out, but I kind of absented myself before I was called."

" Why ? "

" Because any award from him is meaningless. And there wouldn't be so many posthumous ones if he'd listened or resigned. He should give everyone a commendation, or make the distinctions fair. He didn't even acknowledge Arthur Weasley - "

" Or his sons?"

Hermione blushed.

" Or them, yes. " Hermione thought of adding _or you, properly_, but decided it would be tactless. "He's pathetic. And dangerous because he's pathetic."

"So what did you hope to achieve by this - _gesture ?_ "

Snape might be getting his personality back. _Don't ask if he's feeling ok._

" I didn't plan it. I just got angry sitting there listening to that list. I - I want to register a protest. Just not say _Yes_. Maybe humiliate him. "

" And you're in a perfect position to do so... Though it might have been more spectacular coming from Potter. "

" I don't think Harry's in a state to do anything tactical. He still can't believe he's alive. And at least Fudge got it right where _he's_ concerned. "

It was as near as she dared go to offering her condolences. She guessed, rightly, that he preferred to be acknowledged according to general principles. Severus, unwilling to accept sympathy, picked up the most convenient cue.

" Speaking of Potter, I suppose we'd better get back in - especially if he needs you to prompt him. 

" How did you know I -" 

Professor Snape gave her one his crumble-to-ashes looks. Lapsing into silence, they crept back into the hall as Fudge, with more of a flourish than ever, announced -

" Harry Potter ".

Harry, bless him, did not need prompting; and Hermione found herself pondering the whispers of the Mirrors she'd heard just before Professor Snape had told her the coast was clear.

__

He's in mourning for his life. 

********************

No-one could fault the Ministry on the Honours Day Buffet. There is nothing quite so appeasing as a continual supply of first-rate canapés, serious cakes and quality wine. It looked as if Fudge might just pull it off. 

It was held in an enormous hangar-like space that no-one had seen before, with a sloping floor at one end. To Wizarding eyes it looked very new - indeed half-finished.

"The Muggles are turning it into a display hall for Significant Cultural Artefacts;" Percy Weasley was explaining to a bunch of eager little Ministry clerks. "Of course, we've occupied this site for years - most Muggles thought there was nothing here but one of their defunct Energy Stations, so my father got the shock of his life when their Minister of Culture told him we'd have to move. Bit of creepy guy if you ask me. Anyway, they tried to get us to move underneath this enormous pink construction in Elephant and Castle, which is near their governing party's headquarters, but Fudge wouldn't have it. The underground access is really decrepit, and we reckoned that even magic couldn't clean up the stench."

"So where will the Ministry go?" asked a particularly sycophantic clerk.

"Oh, we're staying here", said Percy airily, "It wasn't exactly a convenient time to negotiate, but we're nesting half the Ministry _within_ the new building, and wrapping the other half _around _it. Very advanced Spatial Transfiguration, you know - separates us off from their electricity completely. If there are any slip-ups, Mr Serota - that's the Significant Artefacts fellow - nice chap, though he does look a bit like You-know-Who - says they can explain it away: Rebecca Horne's hammers playing up, a Bill Viola lightwork gone wrong...."

Percy had found that a little knowledge of Muggle Culture took you a long way in the New British Ministry of Magic.

The other Weasleys, meanwhile, had descended on Hermione, who found herself having to explain her behaviour to the concerned clan. Arthur Weasley was touched, Molly Weasley worried (by the hair as well as the gesture) Ginny and the twins pronounced her cool, the eldest two brave. Ron said nothing.

"But you haven't _actually refused_ it yet, dear" Molly said. "It really isn't necessary. Fudge _will go_, and you never know - there might be a job for you here in the not so distant future."

Hermione was certain that Arthur would be promoted, and equally certain that they were both above pulling strings. If anything she was determined to avoid the Ministry and nepotism. 

"I've made my decision, Mrs Weasley. If Fudge comes to me with the medal, I'm turning it down." 

Right on cue, Hermione heard her name, amplified, calling her to the central table. She made her way through the crowds and the floating platters (invisible House Elves, she noted with indignation, as if not _seeing_ them made people more comfortable) with Ron in tow.

"'Mione - just cool down, the war's over. It might not be the best thing..."

He bumped into a tray of wine, with very wet results, and saw her absorbed into a little crowd of dignitaries. 

Severus was skulking by a peculiar-looking channel destined to hold an escalator. He surveyed the crowds. No Malfoys, father or son. They were lying low. Narcissa was dead, sacrificed to Voldemort for some unique property in her heart. That, and considerable foresight, had made Lucius alter his allegiances at a convenient moment. In a parody of Snape's own career, the widower provided Fudge, not with information, which would have given away too much, but invaluable resources. Enough of the right people were fooled enough of the time to leave Malfoy an unresolved case. It looked as if he was heading for a quiet life. Draco, on the other hand, was heading for a breakdown. The Headmaster had better handle -

He suddenly found himself facing an ever-so-slightly-not-sober Sirius.

"Not wearing your badge, Snape? We are in a sulk."

"Sober and grow up, Black."

Sirius nabbed two glasses of wine.

"Not when the Ministry's Best is available. Come on Snape - let's drink to three years' false civilities and the end of a working relationship".

Serverus took the glass, clinked it, but didn't drink. 

"Of course..." Sirius muttered. "Of course...you're still in mourning for him. The devotion never goes entirely, does it? Someone like that - they win you forever. Even those Muggle generals who turned against Hitler wept when he died...did you know that?" (He did.) "Poor old Snape....You seem to have dropped your glass."

Severus held Black's gaze for a second, then slid his glance over the man's shoulder.

"The Headmaster wants me - if you would stand aside."

Sirius gave a mock bow as his old enemy brushed past. He leaned against the concrete pillar, and casually finished his wine. He was full of pleasant thoughts. The dinner he would take Harry to tonight, the house he'd bought for them to live in...and that chat with the charming young journalist had gone rather well. 

Dumbledore was with a knot of Hogwarts' professors near the centre of the room. Severus had to weave his way around clusters of people ever more oblivious to the paths of others, and hovering cones of glacéd strawberries. He caught the sounds of a suppressed quarrel as he advanced.

"I just can't believe you did that, Mione. Think about your career..." 

Dear Ron. Once he'd twigged, he was so - _stouthearted_ - in supporting her.

"I'm thinking about _all _our careers Ron...and Percy's isn't the only kind. "

"I know, but -"

"Look - it won't harm me Ron. I can do anything I want! I've got _clout_ - that's why it had to be me."

"It's got to your head, hasn't it."

"I wasn't showing off. I wasn't calculating...I - I did it for _you_ Ron."

"You think I'm that petty..."

"Ron..."

Severus could never understand why powerful witches wore their confidence out on wizards like the Weasleys. 

"There you are!" exclaimed Dumbledore. "I thought we'd lost you. Now listen, I need your consent for the student headships. Minerva and Frederick here have given theirs."

"Now?"

"Absolutely now. I thought I'd announce it here. There's a certain still-serviceable journalist who would be most interested in writing about the future running of our school."

"This wouldn't be connected to a _certain absence_ this morning?"

Dumbledore merrily scoffed a chocolate.

"Got it in one." said Minerva."Do you know" Dumbledore continued "I never thought there could be so much pleasure " - another truffle disappeared - "in petty vengeance".

"Then you haven't lived, Headmaster".

"_Albus_, please - the students are out of earshot."

"Albus - you have my consent. Yes to Zabini, yes to Granger."

"Excellent, excellent - care for some fudge?"

"Only if it's chopped into very small pieces."

Albus twinkled at him and produced two miniature scrolls from under his hat. He tapped them with his wand, and they whizzed off to find the future Head Girl and Boy. Then he went off on the remarkable mission of _tracking down_ Rita Skeeta.

McGonagall and Flitwick joined forces.

"Thanks for that Severus".

"We know Granger wasn't your first choice"."She hasn't the common touch, but she deserves it, Minerva. And we do have Zabini."

"For a post-war year" mused Flitwick, "I think a Slytherin and Gryffindor are a very good idea."

They determined to the keep the conversation going - the Head of Slytherin was looking decidedly fragile.

"I sent the owls for next year's intake last week. I've already had twenty black borders back…I'm glad we annulled last years NEWTs. Keeping the Seventh years'll make the school less empty."

A long silence. Severus realised it was his turn.

"I've started on the rewrite of Potions NEWTs".

"The students won't thank you for taking away the year's advantage."

"Of course they won't thank me - it's _good _for them."

Mc Gonagall smiled at him. If there was one thing they agreed on, it was academic matters.

"You should take a break though. I heard you were still clearing things up round Chartres".

"No rest for the wicked."

"Then you should be on holiday" said Albus, who had reappeared with a round-up of Hermione, Blaise, several ministers (including Cornelius Fudge and Arthur Weasley) and a very happy Rita Skeeta.

The announcement had the desired effect. Fudge gravely congratulated the young people, and before receding, forced himself into apologies and small talk with Severus. 

"An oversight, but all things considered, we wouldn't want people thinking we'd forgotten you."

"Understood, Minister."

"I' m not sure everyone got the reference to this Camus fellow. I'm amazed you've found time for so much Muggle literature."

"It's the scandalously long holidays we teachers have, Minister. You'd be very popular if you did something about them." 

Even Fudge got that one.

"And, er, what are you reading now? ""Bunyan. _The Pilgrim's Progress_." "Ah yes, a great classic, isn't it?" "Not really. The legacy's more powerful than the original." 

Severus had a high worthiness-threshold when it came to literature, but even he hadn't travelled far from the City of Destruction. He was stuck in paragraph two of the Slough of Despond.

Albus turned to Rita once Fudge had escaped further condescension.

"We'll leave the rest to you and Miss Granger."

Severus shot a look at the Dementor-Girl, who had clearly come to an understanding about the uses of Rita Skeeta. 

"Now you can trust me, Hermione - you'll see the proofs before we print. This isn't just about the next election, it's about getting the _right_ people and the _right _politics in place beforehand... nothing frivalous about your looks, I promise...now, let me make sure I've got this binary thing clear.. .

Hermione was bustled off. Severus turned to Blaise.

"Congratulations Zabini - on the headship and the Commendation."

"Thank-you, sir. I won't let you down."

" You never have".

"I wish I had longer. Give me two years, and no one will recognise Slytherin House."

"One problem at a time. Speaking of which, let's go somewhere a little less crowded, I need to talk to you about Draco…"

As people finally ate and drunk their fill, the crowds started to thin out. Professor Vector noticed Hermione sitting alone on the floor of sloping entrance.

"Hermione? Are you all right? It's been quite a morning for you."

"I'm fine - just a bit dazed".

Professor Vector, never one for formality, was already cross-legged on the floor next to her.

"You know what you should read over the summer?"

Hermione's face acquired her 'gimme-bibliography' expression. 

"Nothing! Nothing but yourself, and the world around you."

Hermione was silent.

"It'll be a heavy year for you. You can't afford to be confused, or not know what you want."

"I shouldn't have accepted Head Girl. I don't want to jeopardize my NEWTS." (_or give Ron the hassle of suppressing his jealously_).

"I'm sure you can do both very creditably Hermione - but only if you focus, and are sure it's what you want."

"Quite. Granger has the clout to do anything she wants."

It was Professor Snape on his way out, looking rather tall from their vantage-point. They stood up.

"Don't listen to _him_ – he just wants to hold his NEWT's record, and you're the first person to threaten it."

Hermione looked awfully impressed.

"Do you really hold the NEWT's record? What did you get?"

"That would be giving too much away."

"Broke McGonagall's - isn't that right Severus?"

"Not quite. I broke Maureen O'Reilly's, who scraped half a point more than her - that's Molly Weasley to you." he added, for Hermione's benefit.

Hermione could not believe her ears. Mrs Weasley! Getting NEWT's higher than McGonagall's? Mrs Weasely, with her homely advice and comforting practicality, her Witch Weekly recipes and Witch Weekly credulity...her neurotic obsession with her sons' grades...

Hermione totally failed to hide her dismay. Professor Snape wore the faintest trace of a Sneer:

"Let that be a lesson to you, Granger, on what a lifetime's domestic bliss and eight children can do."

"It's seven, actually," she said, icy as possible.

"I was including Arthur Weasley".

It was one of those dreadful moments when you are forced to recognise what you've been trying not to see; and Hermione knew that Snape knew this. Vector swerved the conversation right off the road. 

"Your hair's very striking Hermione - where did you get it done?"

"Toby's, Coldharbour Lane. It's a Muggle place. I asked for 'zero maintenance', and he did this."

"It's terrific - don't you think so Severus?"

Severus had started to retreat in the face of female frivolity, and glared at Vector's mischievous smile with intense loathing. (Vector had dealt with her initial terror of her colleague by establishing a tradition of teasing him. She was able to keep it up because of a slightly guilty sense that he was, at some level, in awe of her beauty.) 

"I'm not the person to ask."

"Oh I don't know - you owe every Gryffindor so many compliments."

"Is that so."

"Assuming just _one_ insult per lesson over seven years - that's" (she barely paused) "five hundred and thirty-two compliments owed - if you got insults into exam week too."

Severus could see no way out. He was perfectly aware that someone with his looks refusing to pay a compliment would look pathetic. He was equally aware that someone with his looks giving a compliment could make the recipient queasy.

"I need to see the whole thing".

Hermione turned full circle. Vector, she thought, was always rather good for her. She pushed her intellectually and relaxed her socially in equal amounts.

Toby the hairdresser had worked with rather than against what remained of Hermione's wiry locks. The cropped ends came together in precise, overlapping lozenges that stayed in firmly in geometric place, with no support but their own structural design.

"It's…ingenious," came the quiet voice. "Like a painting by Popova - my great-aunt collected her. Very practical, very logical...and therefore.. " he paused (enjoying their mortified ignorance of Popova) "a more accurate reflection of Granger than whatever she had before."

C_an I go now? I' ve done my bit. Dismiss me._

No, he could not go.

"Why Severus, you _are _in a good mood," remarked Flitwick.

"I'd say that leaves only five hundred and thirty compliments owed, wouldn't you Hermione? Can I have one too?" Vector made the request with a mock pout.

Severus' complied through clenched teeth.

"You are relentlessly beautiful, Professor Vector. With your colouring, it's remarkable you haven't been shrunk for the Ravenclaw mascot." 

Vector gave a peal of laughter. 

"Now _that_, Hermione, is how to call someone a bimbo." 

Hermione was by this time as red as her robes. McGonagall came to her rescue.

"How did you get on with Rita Skeeta?""It was all right! The quill wrote me down verbatim. She was totally straightforward - really trying to be serious."

Flitwick rubbed is hands together. "Well, well, first the Dementors, now Rita Skeeter. Who _will_ you redeem next!" 

"I think it had just better be me for the moment. I'm don't know how I'll manage next year, Professor. Could I hand in the extended Charms essay draft in the Long Vac? That way I'd be ahead." 

"Of course you can my dear. And you know that Hogwarts' will be open to you throughout the summer. We won't all be there most of the time, but Madam Pince has a replacement for when she's away, with the Library needing so much re-organising and repairing."

"Er - Professor Snape?"Severus had the distinct idea that the Fates were embroidering him into Life's cloth with viscously deft stitches.

__

Consign to me and come to dust. Tear the threads.

"W-would it be possible to use the laboratory in August? I'd could get on with the Potions Project. I'm always very careful with the equipment."

"I'm not back 'til the ninth. Just don't expect endless tutorials. You can have whatever would have been assigned to you in the school year."

Deciding he could now make a reasonable exit, he nodded to everyone, and walked away.

"I always think he'll click his heels when he does that," said Vector.

It was agreed, though, that Professor Snape had been almost human.

"Don't hesitate to contact me, Hermione," offered Minverva "but make sure you have a proper holiday first, and get some time with friends and family." 

The Weasleys were approaching _en_ usual _masse_, full of congratulations. The Professors vanished (actually, not as if, by magic). Ron gave Hermione a big hug.

"It's brilliant, Hermione, I'm really pleased for you, honest. You were right as usual," he whispered.

Transfiguring their clothes to Summer Muggle, they went out to the river, stopping to look (in Arthur's case, rave over) the semi-constructed Millenium Bridge. A symbol of hope, Mr Weasley said, to reconcile the prosperous North and deprived South of London. The Muggles were trying to discourage cars by building many footbridges over the Thames. Poor things, Arthur was saying, getting choked by their own cleverness, a problem with petrol fumes…

Hermione stared at the half-formed bridge, and down towards Greenwhich, which was clouded in a dirty white haze. For the first time in seven years, and with great deliberation, she began to read the world.

On the other side of the scaffolding, in black clothes whose plainness had required minimal modification, someone else was looking at the bridge. It was very beautiful, he thought, like the skeleton of a mechanical snake - a beheaded one. It was here, and now, that the echoes of the morning materialised into a voice. The whisper came up from the mucky water.

__

Join us, join us.

The Thames must hold many despairing souls. Why, it was a _community_ of abruptly ended lives. Perhaps there was a one-ness there. He forgot about the last time he'd been succumbed to the words _join us_. The skimpy path of the bridge looked as if it could not reach its destination. _And neither can I._ Not yet, not here. Just a few petty tasks to finish. Make a list. He leaned against the blessedly cool scaffolding bars, closed his eyes, and listened to the river.

"Harry! Harry! Over here!" 

__

Oh gods.

He would just stay still and wait for them all to go.

Chat chat chat. Who's going where, what time, with whom, loud goodbyes and see-you-laters. Big dinner next week at the Burrow, bring Cho if she's back, behave yourselves 'til then. Chat chat chat. Harry and Ron and Sirius and Hermione are going to the Zoo! Why must we go to the Zoo? Look, it's a nostalgia thing, his very first outing. Let a snake out to go to Brazil. It's Harry's day, and if he wants to go to the Zoo, that's where we're going. Such nice weather, let's get a river-boat to Westminster and Apparate from there. Got any Muggle cash…

__

Go, then just go!

They had twenty minutes to wait for the boat from London Bridge. An invisibility spell must ensure an unnoticed getaway.

"So are you taking the DADA job Sirius?" 

__

I dont believe it. I dont fucking believe it!

"Nope!" 

Dismayed choruses of "why?"

"For one thing, I'm not his first choice. I overheard Dumbledore say he had two possibilities in mind. Secondly, I can't stand the idea of having to work anywhere near Snape." 

"Honestly Sirius! I thought you two managed to get along."

"Only for he war's sake. Now that's over, I don't have to be polite to him, and I don't have to work with him." 

The inner glow from Professor Snape's safely cerebral compliment had not entirely faded for Hermione, who'd already gleaned from Percy that Popova had been a revolutionary female artist of the Soviet Avant-Garde. (This brought Snape's compliments debt down to five hundred and twenty-nine, she reckoned.)

"He's not _that_ bad."

Everyone groaned. Hermione was being Reasonable again.

"He did do his bit to finish off Voldemort."

"He also did his bit to bring him to power." 

"That was _years_ ago. Voldemort would have risen without him, but he might not have been defeated without him. Snape's the only spy who infiltrated at a high level without getting caught. And I bet you anything he was behind killing Voldemort's Clone in the Labyrinth."

"Would you bet your Square-cut?" teased Ron, who was lamenting the loss of long curls to run his fingers through.

"Be _serious_ Ron." 

"Of course Snape's very good at not getting caught," said Sirius "and no-one's denying the cunning bastard wasn't useful. But how do we know he wasn't just a cleverer opportunist than Lucius Malfoy? He just realised sooner which side it paid to be on, and he had a cushier time out of it than I did." 

"It wasn't his fault you were in Azkaban."

"No - unless you count failing to use those brilliant spying skills to detect Pettigrew."

Harry intervened rather uncomfortably.

"Actually, he couldn't. He was detained by the Ministry when the attack on my parents was planned - Dumbledore told me, when he was trying to make me trust Snape and - well, not interfere with what he was doing even if it looked dodgy."

"Fair enough," Sirius conceded, " but it still doesn't mean I have to like him. Everything he does is a sneaky manipulation - even the semi-apology he gave me for trying to feed me to the Dementors."

"And did he get a semi-apology from you for nearly feeding him to Remus?" 

"I admitted it was - thoughtless." 

"Hmm."

"Take an unsentimental look at it, Hermione. What if Moony _had _finished him off when he was sixteen? Whose lives would have been the poorer? Who has he made happy? The tragedy would have been Moony's, not Snape's. What has he actually done with all his brains? Created vermin and eradicated vermin. Nothing more. Why do you defend him?" 

"Because she's more detatched than you." 

They felt their insides hollow out. The pale man, expressionless, appeared black and white as the judgement.

"And don't tell me, Black, that it serves me right for sneaking. I merely had the misfortune to be enjoying a quiet moment by the river when you all came along. I was about to _sneak off_ when you started insulting me."

"Don't think I'll take any of it back."

"I'm not (Accio) asking you to."

Three wands whipped into his grasp.

"Well - come and get them then."

He was suddenly by the mass of boards surrounding the Muggle Gallery's construction site. They had no choice but to run over to him.

A board caved away with a tap of his wand, then he called from within, from across the deserted Sunday rubble.

"Over here."

They approached.

"Please, please - Professor Snape…"

"You can keep your hair on, Granger – you win the bet on the Clone."

"Oh come on Snape. I'm not in the mood for a fight."

"But you're so much more eloquent with your fists."

"Just give us the wands and we'll go."

"Not until we've dealt with some unfinished business."

Silence and stillness. Sirius lunged suddenly at the wands. They disappeared down Snape's sleeve.

"Not in front of the children."

Harry, Hermione and Ron leapt back as a great cloud of dust was suddenly thrown up. It settled into a glassy dome. They could see nothing but their faint, miniaturised reflections and swirls of grey dust. It reminded Harry and Hermione, bizarrely, of those water-filled souvenirs with snow scenes that you shake up and leave to rest.

"Get someone from the Ministry."

"We can't get in without our wands. And it'll be closed by now. Everyone's gone!"

"Can we break this thing with our minds if we really concentrate?"

"We don't know what it'll do – I've no idea what it is!"

They paced around the glass, helpless, with nothing to do but stand back and wait. The city of reconstruction, against a cotton-wool-cloud blue sky, made a ghostly panorama on the dome's impenetrable surface.

In the miry half-light, Sirius and Severus faced each other's sillouettes, both swallowing the urge to choke. Severus waited until all the dust cleared towards the dome's walls. The three wands shot up out of reach and disappeared in the fog.

"You're right, Black. I _do _owe you twelve years of unmerited freedom. And you know how I hate to be in debt."

"I don't know what your game is, but I don't want to play."

"I'm going to bring out..the worst…in you."

"Be _reasonable_ Snape, for Merlin's -"

"Twelve blows. One blow for every year you had to rot in Azkaban. I won't lift a finger."

The heat was concentrated, and what air there was seemed ten times more pressurized than outside. 

"You're out of your mind".

"You're in with your chance… Come on…_Twelve blows for twelve years._ Natural or magical – take your pick. We all know what you can do without a wand…I want this settled. Then we can say goodbye."

Sirius backed away. Severus pointed his wand.

"_Levo moderatio_."

Then he let his wand float up to join the others.

And with that, the ritual began.

NOTES: The Labour Party Headquarters are in Walworth Road, next to the Elephant and Castle. The spell means 'Lift restraint/moderation'.


	3. Chapter Two: Victory over Apollyon

Title:** A Decoding of the Heart - Chapter 2 **

Author: **Sphinx**  


Episode Rating: R  


Disclaimer:Based on the Harry Potter Series by JK Rowling. No infringement of her copyright, nor copyright or tradmark of Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers or other publishers of her work is intended.  
  
**Author's note:** Re-submitted with corrections (thanks to observation skills of JL Matthews and JOdel regarding Wandless Apparition and simple counting. Assume that Severus' Dust Dome acts as an anti-Apparation barrier. Look out for extra detail in Sirius- Severus interaction.

****

WARNING: This chapter is R-rated for Mindful Violence and a dash of Slash. Those of you who thought I was this _tasteful,_ refined writer (worst crimes: snobby referencing but mistakes in Latin) are about to be disillusioned. **Second warning**: this scene ran off on its own very bizarre logic.

J.L. Matthews and Riley (of "Slytherin Rising" and "Pawn to Queen" respectively – go and read them if you haven't already) are responsible for stopping me from taking this episode to its worst possible conclusion. Lilith Morgana (of "No Angel" – go and read it) accepts responsibility for convincing me I was right to make Sirius a wanker. Sirius fans should note, though, that this is almost all his POV, and he doesn't come off _that _badly.

As usual, I am not as far into the 'plot' as I expected (no Salomé yet – she WILL BE in the next Chapter, I promise) but the section seemed to come to a convenient endpoint, and I thought it better to post half an intended chapter than none.

Reference notes at the end.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

****

Victory Over Apollyon

(Quite early in his Pilgrimmage, Christian does battle with the fiend Apollyon, the Destroyer, and defeats him. The fight proper is preceded by a lengthy verbal combat in which Apollyon tries to dissuade Christian from his quest in a somewhat nihilist fashion.)

Sirius pulled the first punch. It was a good minute before he delivered it, but the spell proved a more devious opponent than your average Imperius curse. It is one thing to resist the commands of an external authority, quite another to fight the demands of your own desires. Rationalised contempt for Severus wore thin and burst under pressure of the visceral loathing that was its real motor. Yet he held off he fought the spell hard.

Severus chuckled. " We'll discount that one shall we? Hardly a fair exchange for your first year in hell. "

Sirius closed his eyes. Perhaps if he did not _look_ at that detested face - all the more galling for its odd tranquillity - he could quel the urge to grind it endlessly in the dust.

That proved to be a mistake: reality was dislodged by imagination - and memory both were accompanied by Snape's taunts slithering in his ear.

" You lost everything: friends, reputation, liberty. I walked free, with a second chance and a _very_ comfortable living. You had nothing to call your own but the rats in your cell... Poor old Black... "

The fist found its target with little trouble.

" One."

____________________________________________________________________

The 'children' pressed up against the dome.

" Try your glasses 'Mione - can you see anything? "

" I am! There's nothing! I can't hear them either. "

Harry whispered Sirius' name over and over and over again.

"He'll _kill _him. He has the wands."

" Sirius is stronger, " Ron ventured.

" Snape's faster. And he 's got his shrieking-shack look."

Harry sank to the ground. He was going to lose the only parent he'd ever known. Hermione marched round and gripped his shoulders.

" No Harry, he hasn't. I don't know what Snape's up to, but it isn't in his _interest _to do Sirius criminal harm, and he won't fight dirty with an innocent man. 

Ron snorted.

"It's just the blokey punch-up they've wanted to have for years. Snape only took the wands to set it up. We've got to stay calm. We need to get help. I'll Apparate to Diagon Alley and wait for someone with a wand to come and tap the entrance – the inn's open Sunday afternoons, someone's bound to turn up. I'll get them to come back here with me… "

" And do what? They won't know how to break a spell like this either. Anyway, you're right, and I don't want Sirius getting into trouble if this gets about. "

" What shall we do then? " asked Ron.

" Nothing, " said Harry, heaving himself onto a pile of scaffolding planks.

____________________________________________________________________

There is limited gratification in a punch. The second (which admittedly had Snape sprawling) left Sirius feeling short-changed. The third year in Azkeban was therefore reimbursed by the Slimy Bastard's reception of ten rapidly delivered kicks to the stomach and groin, generously counted as a single item. It took a while for Slimy Bastard to stagger to his feet and ask Sirius whether he had a variation for year four.

He had, but tried to stop himself from executing it. From some distant place, high above the dome's ceiling perhaps, Sirius' conscience was assessing his handiwork in rational horror. 

Perhaps he could combat this through sheer force of will.

Or perhaps not. Desire was stronger than will.

A sudden-released spring landed him on Snape. Turning the Slytherin face-down in the dust, his (surprisingly undaunted) hands grabbed the man's hair. He pulled up the head and smashed it into the rubble. Then, as the potter wedges plastic clay, he repeatedly slammed and kneaded the face in the dirt.

He only stopped when he became aware that Snape had lost consciousness. He paused, feeling his blood race, and watched beads of his own sweat drop onto the back of Snape's oh-so-well-cut jacket. 

__

Let's see you smirk now.

He turned the man over. For a moment, he liked what he saw. 

The bits of gravel stuck to Snape's eyelids shifted as they flickered open and quickly shut again. He began to choke, then abruptly spat. 

__

Thank Merlin, he's going to fight back.

But Snape had merely ejected a bloodied fragment of tooth.

" Four ".

Sirius recoiled from him.

" Call off the spell, Snape. I've got the message. "

" I don't think so, not yet. " A whistle in the voice.

The urge to hit, hit and hit again welled up in Sirius. There had to be a way out.

__

It's a Slytherin's spell. Fight it sideways, like a Slytherin.

Decency was too distant to be of use. He needed a _feeling,_ a strong _gut feeling_, to outmatch the desire to hurt.

__

Why DON'T I want to hurt him ?

General compassion had also fled, but, with a strenous effort at reflection, he considered the situationfrom all angles.

__

Harry would despise me.

I WON'T be seen as a murderer after years proving I'm not one.

He revolts me and I don't want to touch him, but I' ve no weapon.

I don't want him to be right about me. (Better, better.)

I resent being manipulated by him.

Damned if I'll be Snape's puppet!

Yes, resentment_. I have my pride._

It worked for a bit. Muttering tactics, Sirius circled the fallen wizard – which served only to rewind the spring. Severus propped himself up on his elbows and regarded him languidly, eyes still almost closed. He was perfectly aware that this supine posture would infuriate Black.

" Very …clever; but why are you bothering to resist ? We don't … get out of here 'til you deliver the … twelfth blow. "

Sirius turned his back, and tried to focus on the nebulous walls of their prison.

" No-one would blame you. No-one … would_ know_. Why do you think … I took the wands? "

__

Self Defence. Not violence.. Self Defence. Self. Self. Hold onto Self…

" What the HELL do you want Snape ? " 

He faced him again. The voice on its own was worse than the sight.

" Whatever makes these odds all even. Then, Indifference."

Severus let his head drop back and gazed into overhanging fog as if it were a pretty sky.

" Of course, " he continued " this isn't about what _I _want. "

He laughed. Sirius watched his throat ripple. A long, thin, exquisite throat - asking to be throttled.

He flexed his fingers.Happily, Snape's head jerked forward again.

"Doesn't this remind you of something ? Some_where_ ? "

Sirius kept his mouth shut, but recalled a dark and bounded space, guarded by a hemisphere of leaves.

"Only now you have to act … by yourself. You can't hide behind Remus … playing the beast … _for_ you. "

From his feet right though to the hairs on his head, Sirius' skin prickled. 

__

We all know what you can do without a wand. 

He had survived Azkaban without a wand. He remembered exactly how. It was a very peculiar thing to experience a rush of panic and be relieved at doing so. 

__

Say something, say anything. Words to keep centred on the head.

" Stop this Snape. For all the gods' sakes – for your own sake – stop. You don't know what I can do, you don't know, even _you _can't know, what horrors drive me. My memories are as sick as anything Voldemort made you witness - or suffer. I don't want to kill you. I - never - wanted - to _kill_ you. "

Even as he spoke, though, the hair on his legs thickened into fur, his skin absorbed his clothes, and he felt his arms pulling him down to the dust.

__

Stand up ! Stand up like a man. Stay upright, look up not down. Up to the sky. Up. 

To prevent his arms becoming legs, he grasped his own hair – or tried to, for paws cannot grip as hands do. 

__

I am not like Moony. I control my tranformations. I am still human in animal form. Control. I WILL NOT (but he knew how much stronger his animal form made him.)

" I think we both know … exactly … what you want." 

Severus' eyes travelled over his opponent's body, noticing without surprise that it proffered its own weapon. 

Now, surely, we are at the centre of the labyrinth: Severus faces the canine minotaur. To each it seems a logical conclusion to their strange history. The long-displaced encounter has returned, on target. 

Sirius claws at his last thread of reason, which must guide him out. He keeps talking (even though it is all nonsense and his voice deepens) while his mind searches for the miraculous path.

"Eight more blows. Eight more _appropriate _blows. Remember Azkaban."

He has his clue. The level of violence is not exactly the issue. It is the _significance, _the _symbolism_,of the blows that Snape counts: he wants to receive poetic justice. Sirius must find an orderly substitute forthe messy reality of what he wants to do. 

That's it. A substitute. He feels fingers in his hair. With his hands returned and a clear thread to follow, he can arrest his transformation at the half-way point.

__

Don't remember Azkaban. Block the memories, they're too precise..

There is limited gratification in attacking with your mere body. What he needs is a _weapon_ – a cold, exacting, weapon - to substitute for the one between his legs.

__

Don't remember those Azkaban deaths.

He looks about him. His hands are itching to inflict punishment. They are drawn towards the ground, to which he can't help stooping, for there he has seen exactly what he wants. 

He siezes it. His grasp is secure. He stands up now, very tall, and steps back with an outstretched arm. Severus meets his gaze with deadened eyes.

Then, with swift movements and surefire aim, Sirius Black (being _almost _without sin) cast the first stone. 

____________________________________________________________________

For Harry, Ron and Hermione, the twenty minutes that had elapsed since their elders disappeared into the dust nudged them from anxiety to a kind of hysteria. They fretted, they debated getting help again, they argued, they waited, they resorted to flippancy. They surmised the pair had tired themselves out, or finished each other off, all the while aware that the scene that would eventually come to light might well cut their laughter. Ron went off to get cold drinks. They gulped them down with desperate playfulness.

"Seven"

The three blows had been delivered to the cheek, shin and back of the neck (once Severus had made it to his feet.) _Yes. Yess. Yesss. _Part of the game was that Snape would never quite know from where and when the next stone was coming.

It slammed him straight in the teeth. He spluttered out another fragment.

"More. Again."

What irritated Sirius was that he couldn't get him to cry out. It was as if the blows weren't registering. 

Well if he couldn't hear their effects, he could at least see them.

"Take off your jacket."

Snape obeyed.

"And the shirt."

Sirius eyed the spindly body with contempt. 

He cast the next stone, a hefty, sharp-edged lump of reinforced concrete. He saw blood and an incipient bruise around the region of Snape's heart. It was, strangely, a second or two before Snape crumpled to the ground, on his knees, his neck bowed, but never begging for mercy, damn him.

"Again."

__

Only three to go. Sirius was overcome with sudden disappointment. Only three to go, and gratification from the powerful blows had already worn off. His desire was no longer appeased by its displaced expression, but goaded into greater intensity.

This could never be the equivalent of twelve years in Azkaban. 

He recalled the Azkaban deaths. The special ones, the ones they turned into a spectacle, making their cell doors transparent so that they could all watch. (He'd learnt to anticipate such moments and transform back.)

The Ministry had never known. 

And Sirius had never told - about the sexuality of Azkaban. It went without saying that prisoners could not relieve their instincts in the usual way prisoners do: _that _created a little feast for the Dementors to gorge on, and the strength of the despair that followed such snatched ecstasies made a poor bargain. After a few such attempts to get through the day, most prisoners resigned themselves to frustration, scarcely realising the force of what they'd pushed out of consciousness.

The Dementors would select unequally-matched men. What happened in the women's section he didn't know. The two cell doors would simply be opened, and the pair led out into the corridor. People in the farther cells could watch via the round security mirrors that routinely appeared whenever Ministry staff visited. What followed was inevitable and always the same: the stronger man would bugger the weaker one to death. The Dementors would feast on the survivor's pleasure, which was excessive enough to drain the rapist completely. He was usually dead within hours.

The deathtoll tended to rise in the days that followed, the witnesses having been excited by the display. Sirius had known better than to look. He was rightly proud of his circumvention of Azkaban's psychological snares.

Severus watched his opponent back away, hands again clutching hair.

"No slur … on your… _identity _… I'm sure. It's the violence … that turns you on, not (he almost snorted) me."

Sirius appraised the curled-up figure. _Nasty little queer _(he was certain) _He'd deserve it._

Now he knew all was completely lost; unless Snape had the sense to stop the spell; or fight back.

Or unless he could _get rid_ _of _this pulsating urge to stab, so there was nothing left to restrain. _It's a Slytherin's spell, attack it from behind. _

So to speak.

He would have to knock Snape out.

__

Stab, rupture, stab, pierce. Quickly, hurry. He calculated the blow carefully with his worn thread of reason: to the forehead, between the eyes. _Ten. _

Snape lay still. Sirius kept well away from him, but knelt on the man's jacket and shirt. For this to work, it had to be as exact a substitution as possible. 

He would keep talking, to stay focussed on the head, and this side of transforming. Whether the unconscious figure registered it or not, he would be told the worst that Azkaban brought out in you. 

His hand trailed to his hind legs. He gave a precise account of how he - _this_ - could fuck Snape lifeless, all the while carrying out the operation from which, through twelve years' imprisonment, he'd wisely witheld.

It was the most satisfying climax he'd ever had.

In the slow-clearing light, Sirius saw his clothes reappear. Fur returned to skin. He'd _won_. He checked Snape's garments for stains. None – he'd over-shot them onto the stony ground.

Snape was still lying in the same position, but Sirius heard him breathing unevenly. He went and turned him on his side. Snape choked. Sirius opened the mouth and carefully removed residues of gravel and bone. To his dismay, Snape met his eyes with the ghost of a knowing smile:

"Eleven".

__

He can smell it on my hand. 

"And now … the last …blow."

"Never." Sirius replied. "It's over Snape. I don't need to." 

"Twelve years, twelve penances."

"I won't hit you again. We've settled."

"No".

"The lesson's learnt Professor."

"Being?"

__

Ever the teacher. Sirius paused. 

"That I've hated you beyond and without reason."

"Very Good. Ten points to Gryffindor."

Sirius actually smiled, but Snape's dead gaze arrested him.

"And that some people…are their own Dementors." 

Still the empty stare. How badly was Snape injured?

"Then … you will understand…if I insist on … the twelfth penance."

Sirius would have exploded if he hadn't been so satiated.

"Snape – Severus – you have my indifference. Enough. _I could have killed you!"_

"No, " Snape replied. "You couldn't."

He fell silent, then seemed to gather strength to speak again.

"Some people … Gryffindors especially … with obvious exceptions … are _fundamentally_ …_instinctively_ … decent. They don't need … rules. You preferred to … humiliate yourself … in my presence."

__

I stoned him half to death and he's calling me decent.

"I deduced, I didn't … witness," Snape added. Sirius was convinced he was lying, but didn't push it.

Snape's injuries were showing up. His nose was more hooked than ever from the fourth round. The smoky walls were definitely thinning.

"Get the wands Snape, quickly. You're badly hurt, I need to heal you and get us cleaned up before the kids see. "

"Can't. We just let the charm wear off."

Dust was slipping down the walls now. Something in Snape's expression made Sirius think he was hiding something else.

Hermione's wand clattered to the ground. Sirius tried it. Nothing. He'd have to wait for his own. He tried to brush the dirt away from Snape's injuries, but it was impossible with the ever-heavier fall of dust. Ron's wand came down. Damn.

"You've forgotton…the twelfth penance."

Sirus shook his head. "Drop it, you crazy bastard. I'm just going wait for your _charm _ to wear off. I should have guessed all I had to do was wait it out." 

He was startled to find his arm gripped by Snape's skeletel fingers, and even more startled to see the hard, jet-like eyes take on the quality of ink about to spill.

__

I can't handle this. He retreated behind a softened version of the usual persona he adopted with Snape. 

"All right, all right. You'll accept a penance, not a blow?"

Snape nodded. Something of Sirius' schoolboy glee danced about his face. 

This was going to be humiliating. 

"Then, what I want you do is…get a life."

Severus sank back, despairing.

"A … defined task … one I can complete and prove I've done … within a given time." 

There was no mistaking it now. Sirius the joker was back, and playing with him, but Severus was beyond loathing him for it.

"You know what I always hate most about you?"

" I'm a Slytherin … Death Eater and … got forgiven."

Sirius grinned. 

"You flatter me. Nothing so profound. No, what I can't stand is the sight of you. That's all. Just the _sight_ of you. "

Another wand landed in a cloud of dust. Harry's. 

"Now I _could_ insist you get a nose-job, given it's got to be reset anyway…"

Snape could not have looked more horrified if he'd been facing a bout of Crucio.

"…but, as your first step to getting a life, I'll settle for a haircut."

"A _haircut_?" 

"A haircut."

"Don't… mess with me, Black."

"Why not? It's what I like to do. And you won't get any other penance from me." 

A pause. 

"What proof do you want - before and after photos?"

Sirius chuckled. _The Sneer returns; good._

"No – you'd cheat. Arrange to meet me when the deed is done."

Snape did not respond. His eyes had lost their focus, but he was trying to raise himself up. Sirius stopped him.

"Keep lying on your side." 

"I want to see the sky." 

A patch of blue had indeed appeared above them. 

Alarm swept through Sirius again. _Don't go dying on me. _Severus was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. His nose had stopped bleeding, and there was little more than a trail of dried blood on his chest: surely it took more than six stones to kill a man? Somewhat gingerly, Sirius put his arms about Snape's shoulders and propped him up. He peeled some dust-caked strands of hair away from the face and turned it towards the light.

____________________________________________________________________

The trio examined the dome carefully again. The reflections were fainter, it's surface was becoming matt. They braced themselves.

____________________________________________________________________

Sirius saw three prowling shadows and his own wand descending. He caught it, repelled the dust at once and applied a cleansing spell to his victim. 

Perhaps it wasn't too bad, if there was no internal bleeding. He moved the wand around Snape's body, murmuring healing charms.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. He kept the wand longer on a particularly nasty bruise showing through a tear in Snape's trousers.

"You're wasting your time."

"I don't understand…"

"The Dark Mark…it made us … immune … to healing spells. Worse than immune. Had to use Dark cures, Muggle stuff or nothing. Pomfrey tried … to use the Dark tricks, but I … wouldn't let her." 

Sirius could well imagine. 

"But the Mark's gone! "

"Pretty much. This is an improvement. One tear from Fawkes would have burnt a hole in me before." 

"There's a Muggle Hospital near London Bridge, we'll take you there."

"For a few flesh wounds? Don't be ridiculous."

__

And a broken nose, and smashed teeth…Let his have his pride.

"Help me stand up. The children aren't to know ANYTHING of this."

Sirius complied. Snape kept his balance. 

"That leg looks pretty nasty. Won't you let me –"

"Oh _that" _. 

Snape was at his dismissive best. 

"You hit an old wound, that's all… well, three...." 

He staggered.

"Very conscientious guard dog … answered … to the name of …Fluffy."

He hit the ground again.

There was scrambling across the rubble. 

"Sirius! Sirius! "

"Harry he's alive!" 

"What happened?"

"Have you got the wands?"

"Are you hurt?" 

The youngsters were all over Sirius. Only one person had observed the fifth wand dropping out of the sky.

"I'm fine. I'm fine – but Snape isn't. We've got to get him - "

He froze. They looked about them. The Potion Master's crumpled Muggle jacket and shirt were there, but their owner had gone. 

Sirius let rip a string of words he didn't usually use in front of Harry and Co. 

"Calm down Sirius. He hasn't splinched, so he can't be on his last legs."

"Don't underestimate him," muttered Sirius, thinking that it was a shame Hermione had no tits. 

He managed to swear inwardly, then pointed his wand at himself.

"Finite incantatem."

"How many times did he hex you?" asked Hermione.

"Just the once," said Sirius, wondering if Hermione's legs made up for the 

breasts, or lack thereof. "Er, you try. Your wands are lying around here somewhere."

They dug around for their wands. Three 'finite incantatems' followed.

"Bastard hard-codes his spells. Bugger! Sorry, Hermione." 

" Maybe we could reverse it . What did he use exactly?." 

"You don't want to know". (But he did touch himself very discreetly with his wand and whisper "moderatio", with no discernable result).

Hermione looked at him. She was altogether too sharp to turn him on. He was confident he could last out awhile.

"A variant of the Imperius curse, I think. Not had it used on me before. Look, Snape's obviously the only one who can undo it, and we need to find him. I suggest trying Hogwart's first . I don't want another one-on-one. Are you all up to Apparating that far? "

Of _course _they were. They were licenced, you know.

They gathered up their things. A few seconds later, they were outside Hogsmeade Station.

"He can't be far ahead. We could hire some brooms from Rosmerta, or borrow one of the boats: James and I worked out how to de-anchor them."

Sometimes it paid to have broken the rules.

They decided on the boats, with a speed charm, and ran down what was known as "Hagrid's shortcut".

Hermione suddenly stopped.

"Get the boat ready – won't be half a minute."

She disappeared, and re-appeared at the London building-site. The forgotten items were still there. 

She wouldn't have bothered, usually, but she remembered that in their original form Professor Snape's jacket and shirt were probably rather expensive. They didn't have the excessive trimming that failed to hide the mediocre cut of Madam Malkin's efforts. 

He had been quite nice to her today, after all.

She picked up the clothes – on examination, they didn't look too damaged to re-transfigure.

On examination, they were covered in black hairs.

An unfortunate error in her second year had made Hermione rather good at distinguishing human hair from other kinds. 

She picked off a hair and scrutinised it. There was no mistake. 

She'd not eaten much at the Ministry's do, but her stomach heaved. No wonder Sirius was unscathed – but how badly had he mauled Snape? For those few critical moments, she had been too caught up with the boys and Sirius to see what had happened to his opponent. 

Well, she'd find out soon enough. She'd have to have a word with Sirius. She transfigured a stray coke-can into a small bag, folded the clothes neatly into it, and focussed her mind and wand on the shore of Hogwart's Lake.

____________________________________________________________________

And that, dear readers, is how you get Severus to the hairdresser's, and his teeth replaced, _before _he falls in love. 

****

Notes:

The whole scene is based loosely on a duel in "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".

The technicalities of the idea for the Azkaban deaths is from Will Self's pair of novellas "Cock and Bull" (end of the first one).

"Strange history" is from Jacques' Ages of Man speech in "As You Like It".

There are many biblical references : "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" (Jesus to the men about to punish the woman taken in adultery). In the Old Testament, God frequently does things 'with an outstretched arm'. There is a parable about Seed falling on Stony Ground. A prayer said on the Jewish Day of Atonement: "As the potter moldeth plastic clay….So the hands of the Lord shape me". To 'wedge' clay is to get rid of the airbubbles that would expand and make the pot explode in the kiln. It is done exactly as described.

The labyrinth in Greek mythology has Theseus defeating the minatour and escaping via the thread he has unrolled on the way to the centre.

"Whatever makes these odds all even" – a misquote from Act 3 scene 1 of "Measure for Measure" – "What's yet in this that bears the name of Life? Yet Death we fear, that makes these odds all even". Severus counts on Sirius not knowing the original.

__ __


	4. Chapter Three: The Wicket Gate

Title: A Decoding of the Heart

Chapter 3: The Wicket Gate

Author:Textualsphinx

Email: textualsphinx@hotmail.com 

Spoilers: All four books

Rating: R for a few outrageous aspersions against certain characters.

Disclaimer: JKR is Mistress of the Harry Potter universe. She said "Let there be Hogwarts" and there was Hogwarts. I'm just the Snake who Can't make Cash, unlike those who have the right to do so, Scholastic, Bloomsbury and Raincoast books, and Warner Bros, whose trademark I do not intend to infringe, and JKR herself, who holds copyright that I will not infringe.

Author's Note:

I'll be posting this chapter in two, maybe three parts. This took longer than expected, and I still haven't got to where I wanted to get story-wise.

Major warning to those who like plot and action - there isn't any. You got that in chapter 2. This is ALL very detailed scene setting (some set-ups for the sequel to "Letter" included) some background and a bit more character interaction. Oh, and Salomé's finally made it to the page, punished for her lateness by being overtaken (at high speed and in glorious technicolour) by Esmé from Riley's "Pawn to Queen " (Salomé was conceived first and permitted her serpentine chum's creation. She has wisely decided _not _to compete with Esmé's spectacular appearance or ability to speak English.)

I've made a change in this corrected version, following a reader's query, about Snape's potential animagus form. 

All literary references and borrowings from other fanfic writers (Morrighan, Earthwalk, Lupinlover , Silverfox and J.L. Matthews) are in the endnotes.

The Wicket Gate

Christian is guided in his pilgrimage by one Evangelist, who tells him that he must go to the Wicket Gate to commence the journey-to-death (ok, Heaven) proper. It is at the Wicket Gate that the literal burden of sins on Christian's back falls away. 

He doesn't get there without a bout in the Slough of Despond first.

Those of you familiar with _A Pilgrim's Progress_ will note that I am not following the exact order of the book's journey/geography. This is quite deliberate. In Bunyan's world, only Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs get to Heaven (those "who would valiant be" and the ones willing to slog at following the Correct Path.) Ravenclaw-types evade the ethical choices by sophistry, and the Slytherin tendency to look for alternative routes is seen as very dodgy, indeed punishable by exclusion from Paradise.

Bloody Patriarchal Narratives. I'm damn well going to jump around the text as I please. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The serpent had been at large all day: very at large, for she was of a breed that demanded extensive habitat. Today she felt good: few people were about, the Giant Man had provided her with Great Turtle habitats to squat in, and had even (at her Keeper's request) raked in some sand from the lakeside to cover her preferred haunts. She felt good despite a nagging concern for the Keeper, who was late coming home, judging by where he'd placed the stone on the sundial. 

A change in the ground's vibrations told her he was back. She turned in the direction of the castle. This showed a good measure of devotion, for she had not enjoyed such roamings for a very long time, and, despite her fatigue would have gladly stayed out until nightfall. An extended period of confinement - punctuated by brief exposures to peril - had only recently come to an end. She turned back, trusting that there was always tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, to wander. 

For the first time in three years, Salomé was tasting freedom.

*****************

"There he is - look."

Harry pointed to a dot that was making rapid, if wobbly, progress from the Whomping Willow to the bottom-left-hand corner of the parchment they'd summoned from his tightly packed trunk.

"Sooner him than me," said Ron. "You couldn't pay me to use that passage again."

Harry concurred. The Shrieking Shack had earned its name at last.

Sirius steered the boat without a word. Hermione fiddled with something in her bag.

"Now what?"

They had reached the great north entrance of the castle, and realised there was a problem: entering the Slytherin quarters when none of them knew the password. It was Hermione who suggested a solution.

"Take the boat round, Sirius - he's right on the lake. That looks like a jetty and some steps."

Sirius obeyed, and kept the boat well clear of the castle's walls, slowing right down. Hogwarts was complicated, and it was no mean task not to get diverted and drawn into some hidden canal. It was almost ten minutes before they reached the place they were looking for, during which the young men tried in vain to get the low-down on the fight. The hex matter aside, Sirius said, they had to get Snape to the hospital wing, or someone from the hospital wing to Snape.

"Why are you so worried?" (Hermione kept her voice casual) "He's tough enough to look after himself."

Sirius did not meet her gaze.

"I tried to heal him." he muttered. "It didn't work. The Mark's made him immune to magical cures. Pomfrey must know how to do without, though - he's never taken Dark treatments instead."

"And he's still in one piece?" marvelled Ron.

They were spared morbid reflections on the matter by their arrival at Snape's quarters.

According to the Marauder's Map, the Potions Master lived in a corridor circling the base of the south-west tower. The centre of the tower was inked in solid, and the stairs Hermione had noticed did not appear to continue above the first floor. She thought it odd, but somehow unastonishing, that a man who commanded the public space of the classroom with such authority should command a private space so timidly. Almost slipping off the page, barely clinging to the edge of its own tower, Snape's lair seemed to be but partially within Hogwarts' domain. It was as if he had been banished to the margins of their world, and, like the Basilisk, lurked in wait for you hidden in a pipe.

The Basilisk in its dark and slimy pipes was very much in the trio's thoughts as they followed the map. When they drew up by the mossy façade, nothing given away by the lancet slits or the (shuttered) French windows, they all dreaded entering what had to be an extension of Snape's glum office with its murky glass-jar walls.

Sirius tied the boat next to another that was moored there, and addressed them all.

"Tread carefully, ok?"

They knew he didn't just mean the slippery green steps, which in fact took them up above the windows to a battlement-like balcony that pinched its way round the tower. 

They were in a garden - or garden path - of sorts. At least, there were pots under cloches containing various growths that looked familiar from their Potions classes. Less recognisable, indeed baffling, were the flat discs placed at regular intervals in the gravel. They seemed to be filled with liquid silver, and twinkled innocently in the sun. They reminded Harry of some of the things he'd seen in Dumbledore's office, but they had the sense to keep clear of them and not touch.

After all, you never knew with Snape.

Hermione took charge of the map.

"There has to be a way in from here," she whispered. "This shows two entrances, and one of them should be on this terrace - just round there."

They walked round, and, sure enough, found a wooden trap door, heavily embellished with wrought iron that resolved into a handle. To their surprise, the door was wedged open. Forgetting to knock, Sirius pulled it up by the ironwork - which hissed into furious life and began to unravel - all seven feet of it. They stifled their gasps.

It was obviously Harry's move. Sirius backed off, and the Boy-Who-Lived, bowing respectfully, began an eye-level exchange of hisses with the upright and wary-looking snake.

In less than a minute it withdrew, slinking through the gap between trap and ground to the mysterious volume below.

"Can we go in?" whispered Ron.

"Yeah - it's fine."

"What did it say?" asked Hermione, impressed.

Harry, who was looking oddly pleased and excited, blushed. 

"Er- Greetingss, Sstag-Boy. Hasst forgot me?"

"You KNOW that snake?" asked Ron.

"She's the one Dumbledore used to infiltrate Voldie's familiars. I thought she got killed way back! We had these secret sessions - me, her, AD and Snape. I translated instructions to her, and she'd give me reports on her progress. Then there was that big fight when Voldie lost all his familiars and the sessions stopped. Snape went round looking even glummer, and AD asked me never to talk about it. We were trying to play down the Parseltongue thing" he explained to a rather hurt-looking Hermione "It was still putting me under suspicion."

In fact, there had been a great deal he'd had to keep from his closest friends, and they'd had to accept it had been for their own safety.

"So what did you say to her?" Ron was too intrigued to notice Sirius' impatient cough as he lifted the door from underneath and laid it flat.

Harry blushed even more.

"Hail Ssalomé, Sserpent-Sspy, Sslayer of the evil Nagini - Well, it worked didn't it?"

"Are we going in or aren't we?" Sirius interrupted. 

Ron sighed. "Down the plumbing again... "

They stepped down, one by one, onto a spiral staircase whose steps were indiscernible in the gloom, and, like the handrail, treacherously smooth. Strains of choral music floated up from below.

Within a turn and a half, they emerged from the stone cylinder to find themselves treading on glass, clutching steel - and descending into a remorselessly light, white space.

It was barely ten feet wide, and curved quickly out of sight in both directions, making you feel you were in a passage to a room rather than in one. Accustomed as they were to Hogwarts' rich, pervasive medievalism, the concrete floor and bare chalky wall - never mind the un-quaint staircase - came as a shock.

Light pierced in from all directions, slicing the passage into bars of brightness and relative shadow that seemed to shift clockwise. The lancet openings on the outer wall were multiplied on the inner one, making them wonder if a huge, slowly turning lamp were hidden in the tower's centre. Circular skylights occupied the same places as the peculiar discs they'd seen on the terrace. They had intricate wires attached. Sirius drew his breath in sharply:

"Scryscopes - typical! He's rigged the whole place up for surveillance. He must have seen us on the terrace - what's his game?"

Snape's dot was blithely hovering around the other side of the tower, and Salomé, who had presumably gone to alert him, was visible neither in the room nor on the map.

"Maybe they're switched off now the war's over." suggested Hermione. "Don't they start humming or something when you're detected?"

"You're right - they must be. Even if he could hear them over this racket, they'd have relayed him our images by now."

"Shouldn't we wait outside?" whispered Harry. "I mean, this is his _home _from what I've heard, and he'll hate our seeing him after he's lost a fight."

"No way," said Sirius. "Having you three here means he has to behave more or less sensibly."

They were far from sure of this, but complied. 

The corridor began with a laboratory. A sink and several fire-points were embedded in a sterilised worksurface that wrapped itself round the interior wall. Cauldrons hung below it, glassware and other equipment nestled in precision-cut niches above. There were no ingredients, though, and no cabinets to keep them in. Two stoneware bowls, one with water, one empty, were on the floor under the sink. A narrow table with bench attached - undoubtedly requisitioned from some unused classroom - crossed the passage like the spoke of a wheel or hand of a clock. 

That directed Hermione's attention to the books. The external wall seemed to be built from them - packed floor to ceiling in grey bookcases that swept along the curve. It looked as if they went full circle and joined up from the other side : a veritable drum of reading matter. The line separating water and sky appeared high in the lancet slits. You got the feeling that only that wall, that fortress of books, stopped the lake from flooding in.

Snape still kept out of sight; but through the chants of forty voices coming from a little further along, they heard running water.

Not the ideal moment to spring upon him, then.

"Better wait til he's done," said Sirius.

"Like, three seconds?" asked Ron.

They tiptoed round - there were no rugs. The books became files. A desk - more classroom surplus - faced a recess with the shuttered windows, far enough back to to walk round and open them. Tidily-stacked crates of parchment were next to it, and a spindly stool. The angle-poise lamp was cordless and bulbless. 

The strangest thing of all, though, was that none of it seemed real. The walls and floor were solid enough, but everything else was - intermittently, and ever so slightly - transparent. Perhaps it was the bars of slow-drifting light befuddling their minds. Hermione touched one of the books, expecting her hand to go through it as if it were a hologram. It was there all right, and her touch seemed to make it regain its proper opacity.

They advanced towards Snape's dot, passing a glass tank containing sand. They saw the music was produced by a (somewhat passé) radio-cum-CD-cum-cassette player on the floor. Some of the shelves, accordingly, held tapes and discs.

"But hi-fi's don't work in Hogwarts... " teased Ron, hoping it came under 'Misuse of Muggle artefacts'. Trust a Slytherin to find a way round that one.

Snape's voice cut through the noise :

"Give me five minutes. Make yourself comfortable. Take the Perriand." 

Curiouser and curiouser!

"He thinks there's only one of us," whispered Sirius.

"I think you've concussed him," sniggered Harry.

They inched into what passed for the sitting room. A wall cut six feet across the space, blocking their view of what they guessed were the bathroom and bedroom beyond.

"What's a perry-ong?" asked Ron.

The item that answered Ron's query - there was no other seating - had pride of place. As with the table, it was placed like the spoke of a wheel or hand of a clock, offering its occupant a view through a window slightly more generous than the lancets. 

A chaise-longue.

Not just any chaise-longue, but a genuine example of the _sexiest _chaise-longue the 20th century had produced (and reproduced, for that matter; but the Hero of a Romance has no business owning cheap imitations).

It was a sleek structure in chrome: a minimal base on which was balanced (at whichever angle you preferred) the seat - or rather mattress. This cut a loose horizontal 'S' in the air, as if it had been designed to support the recumbent form of a very curvy woman, right down to the impudent bolster where she'd rest her neck. 

"Slinky devil! "exclaimed Sirius, considering the conquests that could be made on such a couch, and how much it was wasted on Snape.

Ron thought it resembled the contraption in Mr and Mrs Granger's surgery, but had the sense not to start a discussion about that with Hermione (who was at any rate far more absorbed in examining the books.)

It was upholstered in snakeskin. 

Not just any snakeskin.

"That's never…Nagini - is it ?" Ron appealed to Harry's more informed judgement.

Harry peered at the upholstery, then daringly lowered himself onto the thing, stretching out his legs with a grin.

"I think it just might be."

Before they could decide the matter, the owner of the fixture entered, wet-haired and (to absolutely _no-one's_ dismay) fully-dressed. 

There wasn't a mark on him.

"Albus, sorry to keep you, I - oh."

Everyone froze. Severus took in the scene: Black and Weasley standing around awkwardly, Potter suddenly bolt upright on the chaise, Granger by the bookcases, guiltily replacing a volume. He said nothing, but limped past them to the CD player and turned the music down. 

They clocked that this meant he'd left his wand behind the wall. He returned immediately, however, eyes searing their flesh.

"What the hell do you want and how the hell did you get in?"

Hermione found that the others were all looking her way. It was a fair guess that she was the one he found least obnoxious. 

"We got a boat to the back steps, sir. The door on the terrace was open. Your serpent let us in."

Snape's eyes flickered from the telltale map in Hermione's hand to Harry's defiant face. 

"And?"

"Sirius was concerned about your - injuries - sir."

He let her dangle a bit longer.

"And he needs you to take your spell off him."

"Does he now?"

"And - you left these behind."

She fished the jacket and shirt out of her bag. 

"They aren't too badly damaged. I've got most of the crud off."

Sirius could have sworn that her voice sharpened on the word 'crud'. 

"How very thoughtful." It was impossible to tell whether Snape was being ungracious or, for him, quite polite. He took the neatly folded clothes and limped off again behind the wall.

The idea of embarrassing Professor Snape had often held great appeal for the trio, but now that they _had _caught him in a vulnerable moment, they felt more awkward themselves. It was obvious from Sirius' astonished expression that Snape had hidden his facial wounds to prevent too many questions from Dumbledore, and equally obvious that Snape knew they knew that. They were not people who enjoyed gloating over the loser of a fight, even if that loser was not displaying due signs of humiliation. 

"What do we do now?" whispered Ron.

"Let me handle it," answered Sirius.

Snape reappeared.

"Still here ? Touched as I am by your - concern - I'm sure you can see I'm not dying on my feet, no matter what Black claims. So why don't you all run along and visit your zoo, or whatever diversion it is you've devised for yourselves."

Sirius shook his head slowly.

"A word in private, Snape."

"Discretion? That's a new one for you."

Sirius could be magnificently stubborn when he chose. He stalked over to Snape and led him, by a rather strong grip, towards the study area.

"Did you have to bring them with you?"

"Security measure. I've said as little as possible, but I'm NOT leaving here 'til I know you've been seen to, and 'til you take this damn hex off me."

Sirius had never seen Snape look so mischievous.

"You threw the hex off yourself a good twenty minutes ago, remember? It wasn't nearly powerful enough to last this long anyway... What_ever_ gave you the idea you were still under it?"

Sirius reddened. Snape transferred his gaze to the chaise-longue, where Hermione was now scrutinizing the bronze and viridian remains of Nagini.

"Well, try it out if you're going to, girl. Surely you know a Muggle masterpiece when you see one."

Hermione reclined on it a little dubiously. Sirius averted his eyes.

"Dear me, the mind is so suggestible. No woman in Britain will be safe! Too young for you, too clever for you, and not even your type."

(The mind is so suggestible. In a fraction-of-a-fraction of a second, in a moment so fleeting that he took no note of it at all, the idea of whose type Hermione Granger _could _be slipped to the depths of Severus Snape's subconscious, where it was filed - between 'Deathwish' and 'Duty' - under 'Dunderhead Notions'.)

"And what would you know about 'my type'?" Sirius lost his courteous resolutions.

Everything, Snape did not hesitate to remind him, that he'd revealed on a disastrous 'lad's night out' Dumbledore had forced them to have at the start of the war. They hadn't exactly had the same idea of fun.

"Don't worry, Black. It's nothing a cold shower can't cure."

Sirius took a deep breath.

"All right, play it that way. Now let me take you to the Hospital Wing."

"There's no room."

"Then I'll bring Poppy down here."

"Has it occurred to you that if Poppy gets worried then the Headmaster gets worried and we both end up having to answer to him?"

"Come off it - say some Muggle muggers jumped you before you could reach your wand. That's a shabby part of London we were in once you got behind the tourist bit."

"Poppy has her hands full." 

Snape was still truculent, but the fact was that he _could_ use help. He thought his nose might be fractured, and one of his ribs throbbed badly. Sirius sensed him weakening, and turned on the charm for all he was worth. 

"We'll bring down one of the House-elves from there then. They know what they're doing, they'll do as you ask, and they'll keep stum."

This was so near Severus' own plan that he complied quite suddenly - though not without the comment that he couldn't let a troubled conscience spoil Sirius' evening. 

Sirius returned to the trio.

"Could one of you go up to the hospital wing and fetch a House-elf nurse? Don't give any details, just bring them here."

Ron volunteered. He was the most eager to get out of there: Hermione was back by the bookselves, having been startled off the chaise-longue by Salomé. The serpent had innocently slithered along the chrome frame - and Hermione's arm - giving the young witch a nasty fright. (She tried not to be prejudiced, but she really _didn't_ like snakes.) Harry had happily taken her place, and from the look of things, he and Salomé were exchanging My Heroic Victory stories. 

"You'll have to walk." Snape told Ron curtly. "There's no floo, and my office got blasted. The door's behind the staircase. Say 'Rosa Luxemburg' to get back into Slytherin."

Ron gaped.

"The password changes every Monday. Just knock when you get back here."

After Ron went out, Snape retreated to the french windows and opened the shutters. He stared out at the lake, concentrating hard on the muffled music and the hissing of Parseltongue, which helped the murmurs in his head recede a little.

There was a sharp whistle from above.

"Damn."

"What's that?" asked Harry, breaking off his narrative, to Salomé's irritation, 

at the climactic point.

"The scryscopes. They do that sometimes. It's most annoying."

"We thought they'd been disabled," said Sirius.

"That'll be the day," said Snape.

"But you didn't see us on the terrace, or when we came in... " Hermione ventured.

"Of course not - surely you can tell these are the parts that register, not the ones that transmit. They're rather sensitive to changes in the light."

The whistling died down.

"Where's - what they register - transmitted?" asked Hermione, her mind racing through the implications.

"To the Ministry. And the Headmaster's office."

There was an appalled silence. He found himself facing three indignant Gryffindors, and didn't quite know how to react. Hermione, adjusting her glasses, squinted at internal lancets, then at the chaise and the books opposite them.

"Are these transparency rays from the Ministry too?"

"Very good, Granger. Yes. Patent of Alastor Moody. His lasting contribution to Law and Order."

"How long's this been going on?" demanded Sirius.

"Since I started teaching here."

Snape turned back to the windows. When he resumed speaking, very quietly, it sounded like a testimony or confession directed at no-one in particular.

"They had to reconstruct this room specially. Moody's dark detector was an early model - needed a lot of space, couldn't see round corners, couldn't cope with anywhere too shadowed or heavily charged with magic. And it's unhealthy to be exposed to it directly and continuously. The quarters traditionally given to the Head of Slytherin were quite unsuitable. We turned them into a common-room for the prefects. This tower hadn't been used for nearly two centuries. There were all kinds of legends about it: that Salazar Slytherin's study was here, that the Chamber of Secrets was underneath, that this was where his brother was murdered. Slytherin House voted to purge it in 1791, then seal it off. They did a very thorough job. It's completely unhaunted and quite unenchanted. That made things very easy. The concrete can't hide anything: it's the most charm-resistant material you can have. The inner wall's concrete too. They whitewashed it to maximise the light. Actually, I like it. The traditional quarters aren't good for proper study - too ornate to concentrate in."

"What about at night?" Hermione couldn't help asking.

"They did some clever thing based on Muggle technology - similar to infra-red. And the scryscopes were always more sophisticated - picked up sound too."

Sirius had evidently forgotten his own mistrust of the Slytherin spy.

"Dumbledore _allowed_ this?" he exploded. (There could have been no conquests of either sex on the couch, and it sounded as if Snape had experienced precisely the personal constraints that he had.)

"It was this or a cell next to yours. The Headmaster fought it all the way." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "They'd have put a transparency charm and bug on _me_ if he hadn't insisted a locator anklet was enough."

"Your office - " said Harry. "it wasn't set up like this."

"It wasn't a private space. They knew I wouldn't be idiot enough to hide things where they could be found by any visiting teacher or student. I never could tell if it was bugged or not."

His tone was casual, as if he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

"But it doesn't make _sense_," Hermione protested. "If you'd wanted to engage in dark activities, there were loads of dodges round all this. What could they learn from watching you mark homework or drink a cup of tea, or... "

She trailed off, trying not to imagine too precisely what it would be like to have your _every _activity recorded and observed.

"How were you supposed to - to function, to do your work?" she finished lamely.

"In a state of constant irritability," Snape retorted, with a twisted smile (he never had quite managed a straight one). "As for loopholes - the real point was not to detect suspect behaviour but to prevent it, and be seen to be preventing it. I accepted that. I had nothing to hide. Nothing."

They watched his fingers clench the black cloth of his robe.

"You're right, of course. The documentation revealed nothing of interest. Just created a lot of very dull work for a couple of ministry clerks. Naturally they gave the task of trawling through it all as a punishment to the laziest and least talented - as I often put on record for them." Another convoluted smirk. "I don't think the clerks much liked the way I addressed them across the 'scopes. Especially as they couldn't answer back. And they certainly didn't care for my taste in music."

Hermione wasn't surprised. Snape's music collection was utterly lacking in anything popular, though it had plenty in it that was twentieth century. She didn't know many of the names she'd read on the spines, but had noticed that he had none of the appealing classics her parents favoured. There was an eclectic selection of medieval and renaissance stuff, then an abrupt jump from Bach to Bartok.

Harry and Sirius exchanged grins. Unlike Hermione, they knew the humour of imprisonment. There was something heartening in the thought of Ministry twerps being forced to sit through Snape's un-gossip-worthy daily routines, listen to difficult music and suffer his scathing commentary. 

"They could probe me all they liked," Snape continued, almost oblivious to them, "with their lights and their shoddy veritaserum, their imitation psychologists and their Sorting Hat confessions, trying to dissect the soul. They never found what they were looking for."

(Yet Albus Dumbledore had - almost. Severus could barely admit to himself that the thought of the Headmaster's eyes upon him, of the Headmaster watching over him - even though the old wizard did not abuse his power, did not study the transmissions and warned his Potions Master when he was 'having a look in' - made him feel safe, reassured that he could not stray.)

"They used the _Sorting Hat_?" Hermione almost shrieked. Everyone had a great affection for the old hat. This was deploying a favourite childhood toy as a torture device.

"Only a few times. One of the Headmaster's brainwaves. He let the Ministry believe the Hat could read minds better than anything they could come up with, and pretended to be very reluctant to use it. Of course, we knew it would be loyal to us and edit out anything we didn't think they should be told - even if they tried forcing its confession."

(_But how much did it edit out for the Headmaster?_ He didn't know.) 

Nothing was said for a few moments. Then Hermione asked timidly whether the surveillance would be removed now that the Dark forces had been defeated.

"They broke the anklet off last week. They'll be dismantling the rest 'in the near future' - which doesn't tell one anything."

"We should get Percy onto this." declared Hermione. "He still gets on with Fudge and he's quite high up."

"Are you kidding?" said Harry. "Percy can't do anything without writing a thousand page report on it. And you can still buy really crap cauldrons."

"Speaking of Weasleys, your friend seems to be taking his time."

Hermione checked the map.

"Oh dear - he looks a bit lost. Lots of the usual passages are too damaged to use. He's wound up in the Ravenclaws' wing. Their entrance got destroyed."

"Well let's hope he has the wits to find his way out. I'm sure you've pleasanter things to do than stand in guard over me in my own room for hours."

This struck them as unfair, given the sympathy they'd just shown him, but it couldn't be denied that that was what they _were _doing; that, with the best of intentions, they were not acting unlike the Ministry. 

The trouble was, you couldn't help _wanting_ to probe such a place - at least Hermione's curiosity was very aroused. She was itching to follow the wall of books all the way round, but tact had to keep her back from them now. This did not prevent her adjusting her glasses and reading a few titles. The laboratory area had held a collection of texts and full sets of periodicals on Potions, Alchemy, Chemistry, Bio-Chemistry and Medicine that put the one in Hogwart's Library to shame. There was a large section on the Dark Arts - squeaky clean, with such volumes as "A History of Dark Seduction - the philosophy and propaganda techniques of tyranny" and "Deep Magic and Dark Magic - towards a distinction." She was surprised by the number of Muggle subjects mixed in with the Magical textbooks, and half-wondered if this was a kind of display for the Ministry. They looked as if they had been read frequently, though, and the less functional section of the shelves - philosophy and literature - was thoroughly Muggle. In contrast to his music collection, the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were given their full due. "Tristram Shandy" and "Gulliver's Travels" looked well-thumbed, and she was astonished to see Wollestonecraft's "Vindication of the Rights of Women" next to the complete works of Marx and Engels. He seemed to like George Eliot, but his greatest preference was for the French and the Russians. He had everything by Dostoyevski.

Hermione felt slightly ashamed, and wished Professor Vector hadn't emotionally banned her from reading - there was so much to catch up on. 'English' had been the only subject in junior school in which she'd disgraced herself with a B plus. Baffled by the nebulous subjectivity demanded of her, she couldn't fathom a knowledge in which there wasn't a right answer but only an appropriate way of questioning answers. Her pleasure in the magic of fiction, dampened by her sense of failure, was snuffed out by the letter from Hogwarts. That offered her a whole world - a solid, practical, _provable_ world - of enchantment. 

Snape turned the volume back up on the CD player, but the piece came to an end and he switched it off abruptly. He began searching through the tapes for something else. 

"That was a very _nice_ piece of music;" Hermione offered. "What was it?" 

The professor was not easily charmed, but, unknown to her, grateful to hear another person's voice - especially one so dry and unhaunting as Granger's. 

"Nice? I'd hardly call _Spem in Alium_ 'nice'."

"Uplifting, then." poor Hermione amended. It wasn't that she lacked vocabulary - she'd helped Harry write his speech - but she didn't habitually make speaking an art (unlike, she reflected, Professor Snape, whose remarks they always remembered verbatim - albeit with resentment - and who would have captured their hearts as well as their minds in that first lesson in Potions if he hadn't spoilt his stirring introduction by assuming they were dunderheads and picking on Harry).

"It's by Thomas Tallis. A motet in forty parts. One of the best examples of polyphony." (Hermione didn't ask but made a note to look them up.) "Each singer has a different melody, but all their differences are perfectly harmonised. A utopia in music, wouldn't you say ?"

She could only nod. 

"And they're singing about faith?" (at least her Latin vocabulary hadn't deserted her).

"To be precise, about having no faith in anything _except_ for their God."

He picked out a tape of Bach cantatas and slotted it into the cassette player.

"It's not every day I get the chance to irritate Black."

He proffered another of his warped smirks, but found that Hermione's answering smile faded almost before it reached her mouth. 

"What's the matter ? Going to lecture me on forgiveness and tolerance?"

The 'matter' was with Snape himself. The surface of his skin had taken on a translucent aspect, and through it the real condition of his face - mangled into ghastly bruises, vicious cuts, swollen nose and broken teeth - was showing.

Hermione looked very white.

"Well?" 

"Your concealment charm, sir;" she whispered. "It's wearing off."

For a moment Snape looked alarmed - then furious. She suddenly found a slender finger pressed to her lips, and a few more clamped on her elbow tight enough to pull her round to the desk and through the french windows - opened with a smart kick.

They were on the landing half-way up the stone steps. He used his Very-Quiet-and-Bloody-Unnerving tone. 

"Say one word about this to anyone, Granger, and your marks won't exceed 80 percent the whole of next year."

Quite enough to make Hermione toe the line: she nodded again. He let go, and reached inside his sleeve for his wand.

"Damn."

Hermione produced hers - and the teeniest smirk of her own.

"_Dissimulo Ictae_. There's no need to blackmail me - sir."

She scanned his face, touched it with the wand again, and repeated the spell.

"I always keep a secret if I'm asked. There. You're covered."

This seemed to calm Snape down. He muttered a 'thank-you' and leaned against the railing, looking down at the water to the bottom of the steps. 

__

Here, this is the place...Come.

Hermione saw he was staring at one of the two boats.

"Is that watched too ?"

The edge of anger in her voice snapped him back to reality. He analysed her expression: that wretchedly _generalised_, abstract compassion typical of Gryffindors with brains. Well, he could alleviate that - and keep talking down the murmurs. 

"No. It's one of the school boats - a 'dodge', as you put it. The Ministry didn't have the face to say I couldn't borrow a boat. The lake's pretty exposed, after all. In summer I can sleep in it all night. Get in, we'll be missed."

He pushed her lightly, but none too courteously, back through the glass doors, followed and shut them behind him. 

They returned to the sitting area. Hermione turned the music up more as she passed, which seemed to earn Snape's approval. The idea of listening to it was far from the minds of Harry and Sirius, however. They simply spoke (or hissed) a little louder.

"Where's Ron got to?" asked Sirius.

"He's in the hospital wing."

"Shouldn't be long then."

"Provided he doesn't lose himself on the way back," said Snape. 

A sudden laugh from Harry caught their attention. He was still perched on the chaise-longue, with Salomé twined about his arm, engaging him in a tête-à-tête.

"What's the joke?" asked Hermione.

"Oh - nothing much."

He had asked Salomé what it was like to have Snape as a Keeper, and received the answer "A bit depressing." (Salomé, mercifully, dropped the heraldic mode of address once she got past the formalities.) She obviously liked her keeper, though, as she kept saying what good care he took of her.

"I see you've reacquainted yourself with my serpent." 

The remark was far from warm. Harry suspected that his ability to speak Parseltongue, when Snape couldn't, was reason number two-thousand-and-three that the Potions master hated him.

"I didn't know she was in hiding all this time," said Harry. "I thought she was dead."

"Quite a few Dark Creatures were after her once she'd killed Nagini. Some of them from the Forbidden Forest. We couldn't risk letting her out, or anyone who could be made to reveal her whereabouts knowing where she was. It was very hard on her. She doesn't seem to have recovered her spirits. Hagrid can't find anything wrong with her. She's quite old of course, but I wonder if she's sickening with something."

He fixed Potter with a discomforting stare.

"I'll ask her, shall I?" said Harry (knowing Snape was incapable of making a simple and civil request.)

"If you would. I can communicate with her on a basic level, but I'm no Parselmouth."

"No problem." The hissing resumed with galling inssoucssiancsse.

"Isn't the Ministry a bit concerned about your having Nagini's skin here?" Sirius was still rather taken with the chaise. "It must count as a Dark Relic."

"Not after Dumbledore cleansed and blessed it. Salomé refused to give up her trophy; but I didn't much like it hanging around as a corpse either. Fortunately Nagini was over twelve feet long. The Perriand was due for repair, and there was enough of her left over to meet Professor Vector's urgent need of an evening bag and matching shoes."

If Hermione hadn't been thinking about Snape's beaten-up face and his floating nocturnal refuge, she'd have laughed.

"Nagini's got a better grave than she deserved," said Sirius. "And a Muggle one too. It's not something you can pick up in Diagon Alley."

(It wasn't something Sirius could pick up at all on his income, Ministry compensation or no, Severus thought - meanly. But the voices were rising up again in his head, and he forced himself to keep talking over them.)

"It was one of the only things that wasn't confiscated from my inheritance - the aunt who left it me hadn't been in contact with my family for years. She was a Squib. I only found her after I became a spy, and she died before I could really get to know her. She was actually my great aunt. She hung around Europe between the wars - the Muggle wars - collecting anything that interested her. My family didn't recognise their value. She gave me this, the staircase from her house, and a few sketches. The staircase isn't structurally sound. I've had to give it some magical reinforcement over the years."

Hermione entertained a very bizarre vision of Arthur Weasley and Professor Snape comparing notes on the maintenance of Muggle artefacts. She was feeling more mortified than ever. Just when you thought you had a grip on knowledge, another area would open up to reveal your ignorance - and from her own world too.

"Perriand's the name of the designer?" she asked.

"Charlotte Perriand, yes, though it's not always called that. It's often attributed to the man she worked for, Le Corbusier, but Aunt Lolita swore Perriand created it. All the intial drawings were Perriand's. There's one of a young soldier she found asleep with his feet up against a tree and his head on his knapsack : the posture gave her the idea for the shape."

Hermione looked at the chaise-longue anew: Charlotte Perriand, surely a woman of her grandmother's generation, must have fancied the soldier rotten - and not been afraid to show it.

A loud series of knocks from the other side of the tower told them that Ron had finally made it back. 

"I'll get them," said Sirius. "You're moving around too much, Snape, you'll make things worse. Lie down why don't you."

And to Snape's annoyance, he swept off towards the laboratory. Hermione tried to get Harry's attention, indicating by a jerk of the head that he should clear off the one piece of comfortable furniture - but Harry was thoroughly engaged in talking to Salomé, whom he obviously found delightful company.

Whilst Sirius deposits Ron back with his girlfriend, marches Snape off to a makeshift surgery in his own laboratory, and oversees the ministrations of the House-elf - _we_ can eavesdrop on Harry and the snake. 

"Can you always tell what creature an - _upright_ - would be?" 

"Of coursse ! That girl who wantss to look-think all the time, she's a lion. And Dog-man's the one who pulled my jaw."

"What about my other friend?"

"Fox-boy? With the red fur?" 

"Er, yeah ". Harry was rather surprised. He'd had Ron down as a horse and Hermione as an owl.

"Of coursse, I don't need to tell you what my Keeper is."

"Bat-man?" asked Harry eagerly.

"Don't be ridiculouss!" Salomé admonished. "Can't you ssee how many of our ssserpent virtues, he has? If _only _he weren't an upright - he'd cssertainly be one of uss."

Harry was disappointed. Snape in tights, baby-blue tights, was a Boggart-cupboard standard.

"He's worried about you. He wantss to know if you feel ssickly."

Salomé drooped her head a little.

"It isn't right to shut up one of my kind. We need sspace to keep sstrong."

"He was protecting you."

"I know, but it weakens uss, and I'm not sso young. I'm not be-venomed though, just tired. You can tell him that."

"Is there anything he can do? Anything he should feed you with to get you back to normal? "

"I can find it for mysself, as long as he letss me out every day. I'd feel better if _he _weren't sso ssickly. What'ss the matter with him ? Why's he sso melancholy? The Sserpent-Imposster's gone forever."

Harry wondered how much he should tell Salomé.

"Well," he thought carefully, "when he was quite young he was - overpowered - by the Sserpent-Imposster and became his sservant for awhile. He esscaped by pretending to sserve him but ssecretly fighting against him - well you know that bit, he sspied, like you - but he's ashamed of himsself for allowing the Imposster to rule him in the firsst place."

"The young are easily decsseived and overpowered," Salomé observed, "but they are sstronger if they are attacked and then ssurvive. Why should he be ashamed? He helped you desstroy the Sserpent-Imposster, did he not? He has honour now."

"He did," said Harry "but he hasn't been honoured that much. The leaders of the uprightss don't ssee things as you do."

Salomé was silent for a bit, making Harry think he'd made matters worse.

"He's always alone. Why doesn't he have a female upright?"

This was getting tricky. 

"Erm - we uprightss like to mate in ssecret, and because your Keeper was once the Imposster's sservant, he was always _watched_."

Salomé gasped. "I knew it! He had Eyes upon him, I ssenssed it!"

She uncoiled a bit. "Sso now he jusst has to wait until they sstop watching? They will won't they?"

Harry didn't want to build up Salomé's hopes, but said he believed so.

"He needs to be mated," she affirmed. "I can't be at peacsse until he is."

"It won't be sso easy. It'll be very hard to find him a mate."

"Why? Were all the female uprightss killed in battle?"

"No, but - well, he doesn't attract them."

Salomé found this _most _puzzling.

"They don't like the Cunning and the Brave?" 

"Well, yess, only they'd need to like his body to get interessted."

"But he's ssuch a ssplendid sspecimen!"

"They don't ssee it."

Salomé slumped back into a flat coil, somewhat despondent.

"Of coursse," she said sagely, "they don't come closse enough for a proper feel."

Harry couldn't disagree with that.

"But it'ss sstrange they can't tell. His ssong is very ssmooth, and ssuch delicate paws he has! Ssuch a ssubtle and ssenssuousss touch."

Harry wasn't sure he wanted to hear about this. Salomé's voice dropped to a gurgle.

"They musst ssee how gracssefully he prowls... "

"Er - no."

"Got a lovely big ssniffer... " she offered perkily.

Harry tried very hard to keep his face straight.

"That'ss one of the things they don't like."

"Truly?"

"I'm afraid sso."

"They're mad!" declared Salomé.

"Why?"

Salomé rolled her eyes (or so to Harry it seemed.)

"If the _ssniffer's _big, the _sseeder's_ big. Ssurely they know that?"

Harry was in serious danger of pissing on the Perriand.

"By that rule, it might be a bit - on the thin sside." he said weakly.

Salomé extended her neck to come very close to Harry's eyes.

"You jusst tell them it'ss perfect_._ I know."

Harry wouldn't promise, but he couldn't help asking Salomé _how _she knew.

"I've sseen him when cleans himself under the rain - why?" she sounded suspicious. 

"Oh - nothing." said Harry.

Salomé chuckled.

"I know what you're thinking, Sstag-boy. The inssult ! He never getss too closse that way. Ssuch a resspecter of sspeciess boundaries ! Not like the Giant Man. I had to bite him to make him sstay behind the line. Him and his nassty sscent. He got very afraid of me - gave me to Snake-friend that same winter, in the fesstivites."

Harry _really_ wished she'd hadn't said all that. His urge to laugh developed into a panic, as he imagined (among other things) Salomé as Snape's Christmas present from Hagrid. The serpent seemed to sense his unease, for she switched tack.

"Sso - will you try and find an upright for him? There are sso many in this placsse."

"We uprightss believe thiss ssort of thing's besst left to Nature," Harry lied.

Salomé was not to be deterred.

"What about the Sswan-woman? She's_ very _fine."

Harry imagined she meant Professor Vector.

"I think she has other matess lined up already." 

"Cat-woman then? She's unmated."

"She's much older than him, and passst bearing young." said Harry. 

Salomé gave a long, reflective hiss, then sprang up.

"The Lion-girl! She's your friend, sso you can advise her."

"No I_ can't._" Harry tried to sound very stern. "That's _imposssible_. She's much too young for him."

"But she's old enough to mate - you uprightss are sso fusssy! It'ss a wonder you get to breed at all."

"She's promissed to the Fox-boy, sso that rules her out."

Salomé eyed Ron and Hermione, who were by now talking quietly together.

"I'd never have guesssed. There's no ssenssing between them. She could get free

of him like _that! _"

She thwacked her tail on Nagini's hide. 

Harry chose to ignore this, and was trying, rather heatedly, to explain the concept of a school in terms of respecting boundaries, when a squeaky House-elf's voice bounced over from the laboratory area.

"Oh Master Snape, Master Snape, I is very sorry ! I is doing my best for your bones and your skin, but I have no skills to mend your teeth, I don't. "

The House-elf sounded very tearful. Snape was surprisingly soothing.

"But my teeth are not part of your duty, Xanuki. There are Muggle specialists who will welcome the responsibility."

"Send him to your parents," Ron sniggered to Hermione.

"They wouldn't be up to it," she replied, remembering years of singularly ineffectual braces. Her parents were stronger on health and disease-prevention than aesthetic reconstruction. She did wonder whether Snape would find a dentist - she doubted he'd ever visited one.

"'Mione?" 

"What?" 

"You do realise you made a joke?" 

She thumped him (playfully, for her).

"You need to in a place like this."

"It is horrible," Ron agreed. " All cold and empty, just like Snape." 

Ron was mentally comparing it to the busy cheerfulness of the Burrow, which Harry had taught him to value. 

"I meant the surveillance. The _room's_ really beautiful."

For reasons he couldn't quite fathom, this disturbed Ron. 

"You just like it 'cos of all the books."

Hermione admitted that she was deeply envious of Snape's world of a library, but she felt a certain reluctance to explain why she admired the quarters as a whole, as if defending the professor for the second time that day would expose her to ridicule. 

The room moved her: a scholar's room, but that wasn't the whole story. She'd seen the other House Heads' suites during various prefects' teas. Next to their unsurprising splendour, this had the rigour and purity of a monk's cell, a voluntary prison. Nothing got in the way of its startling form, and had she not known of the transparency rays, she would have found that the many openings in the thick walls broke the narrowness of the passage, connecting the eye to a greater liberty beyond. It was a penitential space, a transitory space, a space for marking time. She pictured the spied-upon-spy pacing endlessly round it, like the minute-hand of a clock, controlled from the centre, caught now in the shadow, now in the light.

No wonder it chilled Ron. Its furniture expected no visitors, no family; it ached isolation.

Yet it was beautiful; and it was this that clawed at Hermione's pity. One automatically associated Snape with everything ugly, unpleasant and pathetically spiteful, but the room reminded her that he aspired to beauty, to purity, in its least mundane sense, and was undoubtedly aware that he didn't have it himself. She suddenly understood a strange contradiction in his appearance: the irreproachable clothes (as fastidiously attended to as the laboratory) and the total neglect of his person. He underscored that difference daily, making an ever darker line of demarcation. It had to be irony, humourless self-satire; a constant reminder of his corruptibility. The beautiful clothes mocked him and the beautiful room mocked him. She wasn't sure if they consoled him too. 

"Doesn't have much apart from the books though." Ron was saying. "Maybe they don't give him a full salary 'cos of his past. This place looks _poor_."

Ron was not entirely wrong but not entirely right. Had Hermione lived more in the 'real' world, she could have told him that western poverty manifests itself in a clutter of desperately tawdry possessions gathered around one for comfort. This was willed austerity, whose grace lay in the concentration on things that really mattered and the subtle rhythms in their relations to each other. Hermione said nothing. She could not deny that the walls were unpictured, the windows uncurtained, the staircase uncompromising, the chaise-longue minimalist. There was even something minimalist about his pet. She was an Indigo snake: a blue-black, smooth-backed, thin-trunked, unmarked Indigo snake, whose affectionate temperament and impulsive nattering were belied by spartan looks.

"Harry - what are you up to? "

Harry was doubled up with suppressed laughter.

"You're wrong you know." Salomé was saying.

"About what?" 

"The Lion-girl."

"Give it a resst, Ssalomé. She doesn't want him."

"If she doesn't want him_, how come she's checking out his nesst?_"

Harry sighed.

"Ha! She's been look-thinking all his mark-leaves ever ssince she came in!"

"She does that everywhere. She jusst likess look-thinking."

"Sso does he! He look-thinkss all the time. Then he mark-makess, then he look-thinkss. Mark-makess, look-thinkss, mark-makess, look-thinkss... They're bound to get on."

"You going to translate for us or what?" Ron said.

Harry managed to regain control.

"Can't tell you now - ask me later." 

Sirius and Snape had returned. Sirius was slightly more relaxed; Snape walked more stiffly, holding his head up carefully. The House-elf had not found any broken ribs, but had skillfully closed the nose-fracture without cutting Snape open. Various unmagical ointments and tight bandages had done the rest. 

"Whenever you're ready," Sirius said. "We'll go back the way we came - we need to return the boat."

"Go out through here." Snape opened the glass doors to the stone landing. "But one more thing, Black, before you leave." 

Sirius joined him at the desk, rather surprised he should be detained. 

Ron started pacing about. Hermione was withdrawn, but he didn't want to neglect her, and Salomé was still absorbing Harry's attention. The snake was now demonstrating various patterns she could arrange herself into on the floor, and, rather impressively, stretched up in the air, for all the world as if Divine Justice had never condemned her to crawl on her belly. 

"'Mione - look at this." Ron whispered. He peered into a small, very deep-cut niche low enough to miss at first glance.

"We shouldn't pry Ron."

"But you'd never guess - look. Go on."

"Stand out the way - I'll look at it from over here."

Hermione zoomed in on a rather strange shrine. An everlasting candle lit a torn scroll of parchment, a ring with a single stone, a broken Time-Turner caught in a clump of sea-weed - and the black-framed photograph of a woman.

For a moment Hermione thought it must be Snape's eccentric aunt, but the woman was about thirty and wore fairly modern robes. She was turning away from the camera with a backward glance. The photograph almost looked as if it had been enchanted to keep still, but the woman kept turning on the spot, always about to leave, repeating her accusing stare. It was impossible to tell her colouring - the picture was black and white. Her eyes could have been green, grey or blue, her hair anything mid-way between black and blonde. She looked like a public statue: grave, intelligent, strong - and utterly cold.

Hermione was certain she was dead; long dead. 

Very surreptitiously, she directed her wand to uncurl the scroll, and went into extreme close-up. 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look on myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, 

The rest of the poem was torn off, deliberately, half-way through the line.

"He can't have been married to her or something could he?" Ron whispered, "I mean, she's really good-looking."

"Who knows?" said Hermione.

"I thought he was gay," said Ron.

"So did I," confessed Hermione. 

She wished she could recognise the poem. Why was it cut off? How did it end? She memorised the first line, and let the scroll close up again. She didn't think Ron should read it.

It turned out that Snape did not have much to say to Sirius. He tracked down a London A-Z from his shelves and spent a minute looking up a street. Then he wrote an address and date down on a piece of parchment.

"The twelfth blow. I'm meeting the Headmaster in London next week. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. I'll owl you if I can't get an appointment for before lunch, or on that day."

"You still insist on going through with this?"

"Of course, though if you've thought of a suitable alternative, I'm open to suggestions."

"No, no. We'll stick to this one."

He looked at the parchment :

"Thursday, noon, _Toby's_, Coldharbour Lane, Brixton/Camberwell. Brixton end more likely."

__

Thursday, Sirius thought. _Nearly four days, good. _

"I'll be there;" he grinned.

"Alone," said Snape.

__

Gods, thought Sirius_, he never misses a trick._

"Alone," said Sirius. "I promise."

He tried to look Snape in the eye, but the man was already turning away. _Look after yourself 'til then - no, that's not it -_

"Stay out of trouble now, won't you."

When they rejoined the others, Hermione and Ron had augmented Salomé's audience. She was looped in a large circle on the floor. On seeing Snape, she immediately stretched up into a zig-zag line with right-angled corners. 

"She wants out," said Snape.

The staircase, of course. They almost applauded. Salomé transferred herself to her Keeper's wrist, slithered up his arm and wound herself round his neck.

"Did you find out what's wrong with her, Potter?"

Harry's eyes were glimmering emeralds of laughter.

"It's just as you thought. She didn't like being cooped up. She isn't infected with anything, just needs space to roam about in and get strong again. She says she'll find the medicine she needs as long as she's let out a lot."

"Good," said Snape. Potter was looking at in him in an _amused_ way that he found very unsettling. "You seem to be most - entertained."

__

Right, thought Harry, _Vengeance is mine._

"Well, Muggles do have a saying, 'like pet, like owner.' And you two being spies, being tall, thin, all in black... "

"She's blue, not black; and very vain about it - always looking at her sheen in the scryscopes. I hope you didn't tell her - she wouldn't be best pleased, would you my beauty?"

He turned Salomé's head towards him. She flickered her tongue on his cheek. He suddenly looked embarrassed at having spoken English to his snake.

"It's remarkable how much one can say to her. She understands simple signs and copies them with her full length to get what she wants."

"Actually," Harry moved in for the kill, "She'd be _very _pleased to look like you. Really flattered. She can't understand why you aren't - er - _married_." (He made it sound like a euphemism.) "That's why she's so unhappy. She wants a 'ssplendid sspecssimen' like you to settle down, have loads of kids... "

Snape looked positively ill. 

"It's really baffling her. You see - " Harry slowly looked the Potions Master and his snake up and down, lingering in certain places, eyes dancing mockery.

"She's _very_ fond of you."

This rendered everyone speechless. 

Harry stood up, tickled Salomé under the chin, hissed her a good-bye and sauntered out. The others followed, shooting the stunned Potions Master very odd looks.

Granger was the last to go, rather pink-cheeked. 

"'Til August, sir," she managed, and shut the glass doors carefully. This didn't stop the delayed outbreak of hysterics reaching his ears.

He waited until they'd definitely gone, then unplucked Salomé from his neck. 

Salomé looked at him. It seemed she'd done a bad thing. She couldn't think what. She slipped onto the floor and advanced towards the spiral stairs in a _very_ straight line, stopping now and then to look back at her Keeper with a rueful expression.

"It's open, Salomé, you don't need me to let you out." He put the heels of his palms together but kept the tips of his hands apart.

Salomé decided she'd just go as far as the bridge and back. She was sure she hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe the Fox-boy or the Dog-man was responsible. She hadn't seen her Keeper when he'd got back, but had she'd smelt blood on him. 

She pulled herself up the stairs. Her Keeper did not follow her. She felt heavier for what the Stag-boy had told her about him. She squeezed out carefully: the wedge had been re-set rather close. Uprights were such complicated creatures. Always making problems, upsetting the balance of things.

Severus eventually unfroze, fetched his wand and levered himself carefully onto the chaise. He'd probably spend the night on it: it gave better support than his bed, and the boat was out, even if a storm weren't looming. Potter's little joke (he had _nothing_ to hide) was the least of his worries.

"_Accio _'Resurrection'_._"

The weighty Tolstoy landed squarely in his lap: the trouble was, it _felt_ weighty. He sent it back. He summoned _Notes from the Underground_ instead. For all his scathing comments about ministry clerks, he identified with the civil servant protagonists of Russia's nineteenth-century novelists. Their testimonies of forgotten lives, unnoticed slights and unresolved bitterness told him he was not the only one. They were his soul-mates, these narrators, his truest, closest friends.

He tried levitating the volume for a full ten minutes. No wobble, but it was an effort. The concealment charm should have held out an hour at least. He should never have conjured up the dust dome: it took huge amounts of magical energy.

He'd always assumed he had an inexhaustible supply. 

That would really give them something to laugh about: Snape the Squib. (Could he find a function, hack it, in the Muggle world? He only knew it second-hand, rarefied through cultural filters). If he refused the headmaster's charity, the old wizard might even insist he take over from Filch in his fading years. 

About ninety of them, going by averages. A higher price than Avada Kedavera.

He let the book drop, and stared up at the 'skylight'. 

"And what did _you _do in the great war, sunshine?"

_________________________________________________________________________

It was almost five by the time the four Gryffindors sat down at The Three Broomsticks for a reviving drink. They had fetched Harry's trunk from the dormitory for him to take straight to Sirius' cottage near Edinburgh. Term had ended early, all exams cancelled, so that repairs to the castle could begin immediately. Harry had rather enjoyed not putting his worldly goods on the Hogwarts Express the day before - it symbolised never having to see the Dursleys again. 

The jokes about Salomé's lust for her Keeper and their supposed antics wore thin after awhile, especially once Harry admitted he'd distorted the serpent's words; (he omitted a certain accusation against Hagrid, alongside Salomé's matchmaking ideas.)

"You have to pity old Snape though," Harry concluded. "It takes a _snake_ to fancy him."

"Well actually," Ron began -

Hermione kicked him under the table.

Sirius especially seemed less than merry.

"I can see why you seized the moment, Harry, but if I didn't know you better I'd say that was taunting a man when he's down."

"Says he who just put him there," retorted his godson.

"Fair point. But I didn't insist on fighting."

"Well then - he asked for all he got."

__

More than you'll ever know, thought Sirius.

"Don't fret about it," said Ron. "You're mixing it up with being angry at what the Ministry's put him through. Like 'Mione said, it's the punch-up the pair of you've been itching for. Now you've had it you can forget it."

Sirius shrugged. "The hostilities are over, that's certainly true."

Harry thought his godfather looked immensely tired.

"Sirius - about this dinner tonight... "

"We'll do it next week, if that's ok with you. It's been a long day, and all this business hasn't made any of us feel like celebrating."

He turned to Hermione and Ron.

"When are you two expected at the Burrow? "

Hermione was to stay at the Burrow for most of the summer. Her parents were on a long, recuperative holiday after nursing her late grandmother.

"About eleven. We told mum we'd spend the evening in London. She's got a lot of colleagues of Dad's round to cater for. They want to talk about how they'll run the ministry once Fudge is out. Yawn yawn."

"Well, why don't we all have a quiet, light supper at my place," said Sirius, "and you two can stay overnight too. Nothing like guests to warm a new house."

They accepted, and, having finished their drinks, Apparated to Sirius' cottage - a very pretty thatched affair, half paid for by the Ministry, whose emptiness was only that of anticipation. Harry and Sirius would spend that summer turning it into a real home. It even had climbing roses and a vegetable garden, well tended by its previous owner.

They spent the remaining hours until evening tranquilly on the grass. Harry insisted on cooking supper - his ability to do it well was the one thing he could thank Aunt Petunia for. Sirius excused himself for an hour to write some letters.

Or rather _a _letter, to Albus Dumbledore. He had not spent twelve years in Azkeban without learning to decode certain signs. 

He wrote a cleaned-up account of the afternoon's events, and ended with the kind of reflective self-sermonising of which he knew the old wizard approved. 

"If things hadn't happened by chance, so quickly, I would have sworn he'd planned it as the most elegant revenge - making me a puppet-murderer who'd give him a death that could only be sought from the bottom of a Slytherin heart. But he said he knew I could never kill him, and I believe him. He wanted to settle things - and force me to confront myself without illusions. Well, he succeeded. He also made me see something of _him_. Albus, he's never let so much slip. He was giving an account of himself, setting the record straight. I'm certain he means to leave us forever, and soon. _Don't let him out of your sight for a moment_:; you have the equipment; let the ministry leave it in place until you're sure he's safe. Above all, talk to him before Thursday. 

Sirius Black.

P.S. I feel it would be inappropriate to accept the DADA post. Thank-you for the offer. Don't worry - I've plenty of prospects."

It was owled the minute it was done, marked 'Urgent.'

************************

The storm was a long time breaking. At the first crack of thunder, Severus manoeuvred himself off the Perriand and went up to the terrace. He called for Salomé. Rain built up fast. Presently he heard the thudding of her tail on stone. She was on the sundial, sopping wet, having stayed out longer than she'd intended. She knew he'd relent if she waited for him to find her. He duly gathered her up, took her in, and mopped her dry with a rough towel.

She flicked her tail smartly against his hand.

"All right Salomé - I'm sorry."

She understood she was forgiven, and twined herself about his neck and up round his forehead. She felt, as always, dry and cool, and perfectly moulded to him. It was the best cure for a headache he knew. They sat by the tall windows, watching the lightning flash on the lake, listening to the pounding rain and mercifully loud thunder.

***********************

Hermione couldn't sleep. She slipped out of the sleeping bag, wrapped her robe around her, and crept downstairs to the kitchen.

Sirius was there.

"Hermione! Are you all right?"

"Just couldn't sleep. It's been so hot, and the storm kept me awake. What about you? You look wrecked."

"I couldn't sleep either. I've made some camomile tea - can I get you some?"

"Please."

They sat down with their mugs on a couple of boxes. Now was as good a time as any.

"I've got something for you." Hermione said.

She delved into her pocket, took out a large folded tissue, and put it on his lap. He opened it.

Crud.

"Not a good idea to leave bits of yourself with people who aren't your friends."

__

Shit. But it could have been worse. (He remembered a little patch of stony ground).

"How _could _you Sirius? Was it really the only way? I can't believe it."

__

If she ever works for the Ministry, Sirius thought, _they won't need transparency rays._

The cat had got Sirius' tongue. He went over to the fireplace, 'crud' in hand, took his wand from the mantlepiece and set fire to the tissue, hairs and all.

Hermione remembered her promise to Professor Snape.

"I bet you really let him have it, didn't you? It wasn't just self-defence."

Sirius checked that everything was burnt, snuffed the fire out, and made it all disappear. He stood up - he felt more comfortable facing her that way.

"It isn't as horrible as it seems, Hermione. I swear to you I didn't use my Animagus form to gnaw him to bits."

Hermione looked unconvinced.

"Snape was much more in control, all the way through, than you'd think. If anyone was defeated, it was me. He didn't behave as if I'd humiliated him - did he?"

She shook her head. He came back to the boxes and sat down.

"Hermione - you could never imagine what happened in there. I hope you never can. If I were to tell you just the half of it, you might think better of me, but Snape asked me to say nothing and I'm keeping my promise. He's been exposed enough, and you'll have to assume what you like. What I saw of him today, in that dust, was something no student of his should ever know of. Leave it alone, leave him alone. I can handle it from here. Please."

Hermione relented.

"All right, Sirius, I'll leave it. But I'll tell you one thing again. What he overheard you say by the river was worse than anything you could hit him with."

"I know," admitted Sirius. "I was wrong about him."

He cracked a boyish grin that, really, _should _have let him get away with murder.

"Lucky he's too proud to care about my opinion."

"Intellectually, that's true," replied unsmiling Hermione. "But you get to him at gut level, you know that - as he does you."

"Well, maybe that's done with now."

"Maybe." 

Hermione finished her tea, but did not go. She still buzzed with questions she knew she couldn't get answers to.

"Perhaps it's as well it happened. Resolved something."

She poured another mug of tea, shakily.

"I don't have many reasons to like Professor Snape either. But that set up, Sirius - I can't get it out of my head! All that intrusion, all those years. I don't know how he's kept sane."

__

He hasn't, Sirius thought, but voiced another idea.

"By focussing on what he had to do. Concentrating entirely. He was always determined, always good at cutting out distraction. That's what we detested about him at school. He never larked about, never got the joke. Always on edge, ready to spring. I suppose it's helped him. If you focus you can get through anything. It's how I stayed sane in Azkeban."

__

That's right, thought Hermione, _bring it back to you._

"Was he really an evil little brat?"

Sirius shrugged.

"He was never caught actually throwing any of those thousand hexes he knew. He'd _threaten_ you with them very convincingly. Filch was always finding acid holes in the floor, scorched curtains and such - and Snape well out the way by the time he did. Drove us mad - you could never _get _the slippery bastard."

"So the teachers thought he was good as gold."

"Not initially. He was very disruptive at first - raised hell in all his lessons, until they realised he was bored out of his skull because he knew it all already, or picked it up twice as fast as anyone else. They'd moved him up to our year within a month. It settled him a bit, but he still gave the teachers a hard time, always showing them up. He spoilt classes for the slow. McGonagall and the Potions Master were the only ones who could handle him. He wasn't much liked. Too clever to be popular and really crap at sport."

Hermione could understand that - from the clever-and crap-at-sport side.

"Remus said you and Harry's dad were the cleverest in the school, but you were popular."

"We didn't make a thing of it, and he didn't really mean academically. We did fine in NEWTs of course, but it was more that we were inventive, ingenious, making the map, becoming Animagi - practical stuff, fun stuff that you develop with four heads, not one. Snape was more the lone genius. Even the group he hung out with just put up with him. "

"Did he call people Mudblood, like Malfoy?"

Sirius frowned.

"Not that I recall. He wouldn't have been stupid enough to do it openly. I remember him flying off the handle when someone put Grindelwald insignia on his hat. He was from one of those grand old families you could bet had supported Grindelwald - though his branch of it must have come down in the world. He didn't seem to have much money for a Slytherin, and always treated James as if he were a jumped-up nouveau riche."

"And was he?"

"Harry's grandparents weren't born rich. I despised Snape for not admiring that, for noticing it at all and thinking it mattered - more than being fun and witty and kind. Given what a meritocrat he is, it was hypocritical."

Hermione sipped her tea. She tried to picture Snape when he was her age.

"Why would someone join Voldemort if they didn't want to be associated with Grindelwald? It doesn't make sense."

"I couldn't tell you exactly, Hermione; but Voldemort never sold himself as Grindelwald's successor. He wanted a unique place in his own century. You could even say he _dissociated_ himself somewhat. He started out very respectable, tried to infiltrate traditional politics. Lots of people didn't realise how dangerous he was until it was too late. There was much more prejudice against Muggles and mixed origins then. Nothing virulent, just _unthinking_, and Grindelwald wasn't chiefly remembered for his purebloodism. He was more about the dominance of the Teutonic tradition. Worked up people's fears about Oriental trickery, African power, Latin American subversion - foreign takeover. A lot of British people bought that - not us Celts, of course."

Hermione decided to reward Sirius' fairmindedness.

"It's a shame Binns won't ever retire. You'd be great teaching History of Magic."

***************

It was well into the small hours, and the Potions master was once more stretched out on his chaise-longue. Undressed. He was wakeful, even though the day's events hadn't entirely displeased him. He'd paid Black back, in every sense. He'd done all he could, and no-one in the world could deny it. 

He clicked his fingers. Once, twice, three times.

A long blue line emerged from the tank.

Click, click,click.

It was one of _those_ nights. Salomé slid along towards the bedroom, but saw that her Keeper was somewhere else. She slithered up the chrome and coiled onto his chest.

He drew circles with his index finger just above her head.

It is always that simple sign, but Salomé knows just what to do.

His arm drapes down to the floor, and his head rolls back.

She spirals upwards. She twists on the spot, turning like a slow machine.

He watches.

She keeps spinning, always upwards, as if the spiral will forever disappear into the sky.

When she's used up her full length, she goes into reverse and down, then begins again.

He is lighter than helium, but his eyelids feel heavy.

They flickered and shut, but Salomé still danced, expertly circling him to sleep. Round and round, a hypnotic machine. 

It was the darkest hour before dawn, but the serpent danced on until she, too, sank into a coil of sleep, lulled by his heartbeat.

If she could have heard his thoughts instead, she would not have understood them - not even in her own tongue.

A chant, a mantra.

__

When morning comes I will not wake. When morning comes I will not wake.

When morning -

___________________________________________________________________ 

****

Acknowledgements of other fanfic writers:

MORRIGHAN - Invented "scryscopes", wizarding surveillance, as they appear in "Staff Meeting"an under-read little fic. I didn't get all the technical details, but adapted the basics to my own use. And had the brilliant thought that Snape's 'lift restraint' hex had already worn off by the time the fight was over.

JL MATTHEWS. Snape's CD player, I imagine, is a gift from her OC Marlie Lovegood in "Slytherin Rising".

LUPINLOVER - "Stained Glass"- the idea of enchanting a photograph to keep still. Plus the orginal Snape-Granger shipper.

SILVERFOX - "Harry, Hogwarts Caretaker" - the idea of taking over from Filch. More importantly, Hogwarts' state of physical collapse after the war. That is going to be VERY useful - forcing our couple into places they wouldn't normally go..Thank you! Oh, and young Severus as a little hell-raiser in class from "My Name's Severus". And how DID you guess about Albus not taking his eyes of Severus for a moment? I planned that ages ago, and you picked up on it in your review.

EARTHWALK - Describes a Concealment charm in the Banshee chapter of "I Was Right".

LILITH MORGANA - The Latin spell for hiding wounds.

****

Footnotes for Fellow Nerds

All I know about Indigo snakes is from Google. They grow up to nine feet long. Assume Salomé's born and bred in Britain, and magically protected from the climate. An indigo snake's the only kind I've ever had round my neck - and it WAS cool, dry and soothing. Not slimy at all...

Salomé's opening gambit is inspired by a _Far Side_ Cartoon, wherein domestic pet dogs being taken for a walk in a city park greet each other in grandiose terms. For some reason this was hysterically funny. I found a sustained thee-ing and thou-ing very annoying to read, and assumed you would too. Salomé's version of Parseltongue owes a bit to George Orwell's "Newspeak" in Nineteen Eighty Four - though I didn't realise it until I'd written it. Quite appropriate though.

Severus' room. OK, so Romances have two purposes. One, to reduce the hero to desirable property. All romances could be subtitled "The Taming of the Sexy Bastard". Two - to get desirable property, as in Real Estate, that most women can't afford in reality. Hands up those of you who've read a romance winding up in a really grotty flat. Most fanfics make the desirable property Medieval, Georgian, Regency or Victorian at a pinch. I happen to like High Modernism, but I have an impeccable intellectual excuse for using it here. Modernism is THE aesthetic of transparency, the utopia of honesty, puritan lack of concealment. Plus devotion to "Form Follows Function" and "Ornament is Crime" (Adolf Loos) - which ties in with Snape as pure usefulness, reduced to his funtion. So there. I imagine the inner wall of his room looking like Le Corbusier's chapel at Ronchamp, but without the naff stained glass he almost wrecked it with.

Severus' room part two. The panopticon prison, designed by Jeremy Bentham, was, believe it or not, meant to be a humane advance in prison architecture. It is what it says - all seeing. The governor is in a revolving tower at the centre, the prisoners in a circle of glass-walled, backlit cells around. Warders walk round an inner circle between the two, watched by the governor, watching the prisoners, who know they are under constant surveillance. Michel Foucault's description (in "Discipline and Punish, I think) is the most famous; but my favourite analysis of it is in Robin Evans' insightful, erudite, humane book on the history of prison buildings, The Fabrication of Virtue. Angela Carter's prison for female murderers in Nights at the Circus is a panopticon. All attempts to put Bentham's theories into practice resulted in mental breakdown for the prisoners. Visit Lincoln's old prison if you find yourself in Northern England - it's not a panopticon, but it used the ideas.

The date of Slytherin House's purging of the Tower coincides with the Terror in revolutionary France. This was also the beginning of the 'Modern' period of Progress, according to many cultural historians. EP Thompson describes the 'long' nineteenth century as being from the French Revolution (end 18th cent) to the First World War. (And the 'short' twentieth from 1918 to the fall of the Berlin Wall in '89.) 

Charlotte Perriand - pioneer textile designer, interior designer and furniture designer. The soldier story is in her autobiography. Most people now give her joint responsibility with Le Corbusier for the final form of the chaise-longue. My absolutely fave description was in a crappy biography of Le C, which claimed that the piece was like "a very expensive French tart" (as if the author really knows, and not the kind you eat). He said English men would have made it comfy and sensible, like their wives, and German men would have made it even starker and more serious (like _their_ wives. He obviously had no problem with national stereotyping, or with getting it wrong - Le C was Swiss, not French.) He clearly hadn't looked at Perriand's sketchbooks. 

Aunt Lolita - the name's from Nabokov's titular heroine - an underage girl who has an affair with an older man. Plus a little joke for those of you who regularly email me. Cranky old aunts are the only relations I can imagine Sev having, and I'm not the first to give him one.

Thomas Tallis. I don't know much about music, but Mr Sphinx does, and this work is in his CD collection (Early Music section.) The score is huge because of the 40 parts, and I can never find a shelf wide enough to put in on. Think I better frame it. 

Apologies to Hagrid fans (you exist?) for such disgraceful aspersions. But can't you just imagine him thinking he wasn't hurting his pets, he was making them have a good time... perhaps he'll try seeing how screwts blast their ends off, one of these days... For the record, I don't have pets, never have had pets, and don't have much to do with the natural world. I hope I haven't started a terrible new genre for the NY17s. Oh dear. 

I've assumed the surveillance is still operational, but not really looked at, so Severus can be fairly sure that Poppy will only find out what's happened if she's told. Just in case the ministry clerks do have to trawl through his stuff again, though, he can't resist snarling at them from his chaise longue anyway. 

Look up the sonnet yourselves then. You all found the T and C ref from Google, now, didn't you? (With one or two honourable exceptions – you know who you are.)

I'm trying to be fair to Sirius. The GOF scenes suggest he can be quite astute about people - ie, the description of the Crouch family.

Severus' mantra is a twist on the child's prayer: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." 

THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR WONDERFUL REVEIWS OF CHAPTER TWO. As a nerd in everything BUT computing, I haven't mastered this 'Roll of Honour" thing. I will try to do it for next time. Hope this pleases. 

Textualsphinx. 


	5. Chapter Four: Help Pulls Him Out

A Decoding of the Heart - Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: Based on characters and situations created by JK Rowling. No money is being made from this.

AUTHOR'S NOTES 

Excuses for the 12 months' gap. Sighs. Well, first I had a public art-project to prepare in April. Then one to finish off (installed during the time Le Pen nearly got to power - a work including Algerian women, in a right-wing part of France. What timing.) My computer broke down last May 2002. By the time I got it back into working order (late-June) I had piles of RL stuff to catch up on, was in exhibition-preparation mode (again), had 12 two-hour lectures to research and write over the summer (and which I 'delivered' in packed teaching schedule of Autumn term.) Blame Mr Sphinx's success in roping me into more DIY than I wanted to do for lack of finishing in Christmas hols. (I took the computer, I calculated three days per scene) Gargantuan thanks to every one of you who has emailed and reviewed me encouragement - without you, chapter 4 would not have been written. Thanks especially to everyone who sent me comments (JL Matthews, Warrego, Paula, Layelle - I hope I haven't missed anyone) and to Angel of the North for doing a rapid and ruthless Beta of the text mere weeks away from her Finals. Both JLM and AotN persuaded me that I really could, even should, stop the chapter before the still-to-be-finished Haircut.

Having failed to post promised 'something' way back in January, I've divided one chapter into two. There are a number of balls cast here that will now only hit their targets in the next half-chapter, 'And Dumps him at the Hill of Difficulty'. (This lack of tying up of certain threads, to change the metaphor, is annoying me. I had plans for the line from David Hare. ) Chapter 5 will take us through the summer up to Hermione's early return to Hogwarts, 'Where Piety Discourses Him'. 

I wish I could tell you that this was worth the wait, but the blasted thing is less than the sum of its wayward parts, and no better for having taken even longer than the others. "More labour than elegance", as Dr Johnson said.

References: the shameless lift of the last line of David Hare's play (later film) _Plenty_. Some Rupert Brook echoes and a twisted version of Walter Benjamin's description of the Angel of History. A weeny quotation from Sally Potter's film _The Tango Lesson_ - an exchange about floorboards and dry rot rather than Snape's state of mind! Molly is trying very hard to be literature's most alluring Housewife, Mrs Ramsay. Hermione's notes became Bridget Jones actually thinking. (I have just spent two hours arranging the first part of Hermione's notes into two columns she would have used for comparison, only to find that when I save to html - ff.net doesn't like my Word documents - the Mac I'm on won't let me keep the two-column format. It's not even offering 'edit using bloc notes'. I will try to rectify this in the next week or so, since it's scrambled the way that part should be read. Any offers of help in this appreciated) The anecdote about Percy was sparked off by Cairnsy's story at ff.net _Where Will the Children Play?_ (I've changed it to a minor incident, so as not to spoil the story for you. All three parts, not just Percy's, recommended.) The opening image of Salomé and Snape is from one of my favourite posters: the English National Opera's 1989 staging of The Magic Flute. I can't remember if it was Harold Wilson or someone else who said 'a week is a long time in politics'. 

Two reminders: Maureen O'Reilly is the maiden name I gave Molly Weasley in Chapter One, and the canon time-line's been shifted a year (so that I could have the millennium when the characters need it.) Chapter three ended with Severus getting Salomé to hypnotise him into a sleep from which he didn't want to wake.

One of Christian's earliest obstacles, as you now all know, is the Slough of Despond. He flounders in it until the figure 'Help' comes and rescues him. Quite a few 'Helps' stroll along here (and in the next chapter) as it happens. None of them came to the writer's rescue when she got mired in a mass of back-stories.

****

Help Pulls Him Out

If a week is a long time in Politics, it is an eternity in Romance. This is particularly so when the protagonists get no opportunity to meet. Imagine ours, now, on opposite sides of the Labyrinth, and not a hairpin bend in sight to swerve them to proximity. They aren't even on the same pilgrimage. They traverse their separate landscapes with quite different destinations in mind. Imagine this as you trudge through barely half the week following Honours day, and pray that Patience accompany you on the journey.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He did not wake up the next day or the day after that. 

At one o'clock on Wednesday morning, Albus Dumbledore was perched by the Perriand on the spindly stool. It wasn't exactly dark. The transparency rays' nocturnal light mimicked street-lamp sodium - redder, but as oddly unwarming.

"Is the serpent in your way?" he whispered to the ancient object on his lap.

Salomé had unwound her upper body to wrap it around Snape's eyes. Not for the first time, the Headmaster marvelled at her understanding of human need. His Potions master looked peaceful enough. The loosely tied dressing gown just covered the bandages, and Hermione's concealment charm held fast.

"Not really," replied the Hat. "But that concealment charm makes things a bit awkward." 

"I can remove it." Dumbledore offered.

"No - don't want to disturb things more than we have to."

The Hat was tense in the Headmaster's hands. 

"Is this absolutely necessary?"

"I'm afraid so."

It sighed. Snape's mind might be fascinating to visit, but the excursion (or rather incursion) always left you feeling you may as well Stitch yer Brim.

"So what am I looking for?"

It was a longstanding rule that _general rummaging around_ was not on: you went in, found a specific piece of information, and came straight back out. At least, the Hat reflected, it was easy to locate things in there - unlike some cluttered, disorganised minds. Now Snape's _did _house a fair amount of chaos, but it was kept in the basement with very efficient locking charms. 

"I need you to determine what's keeping him asleep. Poppy swears he hasn't taken anything and isn't concussed."

"That all?"

"Any plans to do something foolish - and what will prevent him."

"Tried the Love of Good Woman?" sneered the Hat.

"Please don't joke about that. I'm not God Almighty."

"You do a fair impression."

Dumbledore sighed. He could never quite predict the Hat's moods. Centuries of existence had doubtless made It a bit dotty.

"Do be quiet and get in; this is amost serious enquiry_. _And leave the Great Lost Love _alone_."

"Spoilsport." 

The erotic and romantic sections of Severus's brain - closer together than in most men's - earned 'Worth a Detour' in the Hat's unwritten guide to sorcerors' heads. 

The mind-reader sucked in its breath. Things were a good deal less orderly than usual.

"Bad?" ventured Dumbledore.

"Bad." said the Hat.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Molly Weasley joined Hermione in the garden. The Burrow was looking smarter than it ever had, Arthur and 'the boys' having fulfilled long-deterred promises to get the place sorted out. The cracks in the house's rendering were filled and painted, the wellies and rusty cauldron tucked out of sight. Three types of lavender were flourishing and the lawn was recognisably a lawn.

"Where are Ron and Harry?"

Hermione, pocketing a notebook, jerked her head towards the paddock up the hill. 

"Practising for Harry's trials with the Cannons. They want to test him for summer 2000 before the other teams get round to it." 

She had the nettled look of the Neglected. 

"He _says_ Ron can prepare him better than Sirius because he knows their tactics; _I _think it's just an excuse to give Sirius some privacy with the _G Wizz_ journalist. "

Mr. Black may not have owned a modernist chaise longue, but he had other virtues that said journalist had noisily appreciated the night before. Remembering Silencing charms was not one of them. A cringing Harry had taken red-faced leave of his post-war Cool - and his Godfather - that very morning. 

Molly confined her comments to Quidditch.

"Harry could get into a better team than the Cannons. "

"Yes, but they don't need him as much. Harry thinks he could pull the Cannons back to the top of the League." She grinned. "He's doing it for Ron, of course. Promised to wangle him a season's discount tickets if he gets in."

"You'll never get a single Saturday together, " Molly protested.

"Oh, I don't know. I can't avoid watching Quidditch forever."

"You're not obliged to, Hermione, we all respect that. Ron especially."

The stale memory wafted across Hermione's mind. She had not attended a Quiddtich match since Easter of her fifth year - a first class seat next to Krum's parents in the Bulgarian Minister-of-Magic's box. Viktor had not pulled his team up to consistent top-of-the-world status, but they had done better than usual that season, and in that particular game, were all set to beat Albania 290 to 110.

And they did. Hermione had cheered along with everyone else as the young Viktor spun in the air and swooped into his famous dive - real, not feint. 

More had depended upon the outcome of that match than national sporting pride. Albania, already weakened by her non-magical conflicts, had crumpled under Voldemort's early assaults and supplied him a puppet government. There had been moves to ban the country from competing altogether, but a straightforward defeat was reckoned to be both probable and strategically shrewder: a battle against Evil won on the playing fields of Europe. Some shuffling of the draw made sure that Albania faced Krum before the quarterfinals. Viktor had been well aware of the symbolic weight on his shoulders, and carried it with a conviction intensified by his devotion to a certain Muggle-born witch. 

He had hurled right towards their box, inches above the pitch, leaving the hapless Albanian Seeker far behind. The glittering spec lurched skywards and Krum soared after, reaching up in triumph. Hermione could have sworn he caught her eye. She forgot herself, and everything else, entirely.

"Get it Viktor! Get it!"

And he did: the Snitch exploded on contact.

Someone had been most inspired by the Triwizard Tournament. All Hermione remembered of the succeeding moments was the fine spatter of blood on her skin, and the Bulgarian Deputy-Minister's lack of surprise.

Bulgaria, unlike Britain, had acknowledged the return of Voldemort, and been quick to put up every resistance she could. Viktor had used his star-status to strengthen that resistance, especially amongst Bulgarian youth. His country's apparent solidarity, that early in the war, had made open defiance - which included flaunting the equally valiant Ms Granger - seem as wise an option as less morale-boosting tactics of secrecy. 

Viktor had joked about the 'so-boring securities' and dismissed the death threats.

__

Don't vorry, Herr-my-own-nee; I get such crazy letters since I haff been professional.

He'd had _her _heavily protected all the same.

Molly put her arm about Hermione's shoulders. The girl dutifully leaned in to her.

"Ron will wait a long time for you. You know that, don't you? He's worried it was only eighteen months after - " 

Hermione cut her short.

"I wasn't in love with Viktor Krum. Not even a little."

Molly shifted ground. There was something _cauterised_ about the way her son's Intended bore that particular wound, and it unnerved her.

"I came out here to give you this."

She handed Hermione the _Daily Prophet_.

"Skeeter's article. Page 3."

"She was supposed to have sent me the proofs! Is it ok?"

"I haven't read it yet. Picture's not bad."

Hermione took this as tacit acceptance of the Haircut. The picture was better than 'not bad'. It was brilliant. She made a mental note always to be photographed in black-and-white: it masked her undistinguished colouring, lending her features a definition they lacked in reality. Monochrome historicised as colour could not. She could imagine this image on the jacket of _Breakthroughs in 20th Century Sorcery_ or _Heroines of the Resistance - A World Uncovered_. Against a backdrop which practically screamed 'potential' (half-open Ministry Gates plus emerging Millennium Bridge) she looked intense, serious and five years older. 

As compliments went, it rivalled Professor Snape's. 

The article itself was just as gratifying.

****

Sanity from the Dementor Girl

Hermione Granger, the eighteen-year-old prodigy who literally calculated away Voldemort's most dangerous allies, walked out of the Honours Ceremony held at the Ministry of Magic's Headquarters last Sunday. In an exclusive interview for _The Daily Prophet_, Hogwarts' new Head Girl explains why she refused the First Class Order of Merlin, and outlines her vision of a more rational future for the wizarding community.

The by-line was minuscule by Rita's usual standards, the prose sober, and not a single 'famous wizard' she could have been linked to was mentioned. She was the interest, not the love-interest.

Molly read over her shoulder:

" 'She attributes her achievements to being Muggle-born. "It should be seen as having a double heritage, not half of one." ' - Arthur'll want to borrow that for electioneering."

"He'll have to get permission from Rita then - I didn't put it like that."

"Oh dear - has she twisted everything?"

Hermione skimmed the article.

"No, she's just - polished me up a bit and - I don't believe it!"

"What?"

"She kept the bit about house-elves!"

Molly homed in on another passage.

"The social structures of the wizarding world are trapped in the Muggle nineteenth century, and the legal system's hardly left the fourteenth. It's no wonder that in politics everything depends on personal connections and powerful personalities. Judged by Muggle standards, we're undemocratic - a One-Party state."

Perhaps the Dementor Girl has ambitions to be the first female Minister of Magic in over seventy years?

"If it's still the same old Ministry, I'm not sure. Of course there are good people there, but I don't know how radically you can change a system once you're in it, once it's your means of living. It would be good to have more witches in power though. That's another thing that, as a Muggle-born, I find strange. I just don't understand why sexism exists amongst Sorcerers - magic wipes out the physical differences men have claimed as advantages; it gave us the reproductive control my grandmother fought for centuries ago. But things seem to have gone backwards in the last half-century. Why does equality vanish after Hogwarts? Why do so many witches live like Muggle housewives from the 50s ? "

"Well don't ask _me_." said Molly, smiling as she noticed Hermione's nervous sideways glance and accompanying blush. "How could a dim earth-mother possibly analyse her situation better than her genius-of-a-future-daughter?"

Molly was looking remarkably like Albus Dumbledore in 'genial _plus_' mode.

"Of course I didn't mean _you_, Molly - you need to be really clever and powerful to manage a big household like this and bring up eigh - seven children properly...and ...well, you're the last word on authority at the Burrow. None of that 'wait til your father gets home' stuff." Hermione attempted humour- " Mrs Weasley _Rules_."

Her reserves were running out, and Molly was definitely chuckling.

"Anyway," Hermione floundered desperately, "you _can't _pretend you're dim because you held the NEWT's record and it took Professor _Snape_ to top you." 

"Who told you that?" asked Molly (idly noting the assessment of Snape's brains as well as hers.)

"_He_ did. Professor Vector was teasing him about how I'd beat his record, and it came up."

"_The Sniper_ got teased? I wish I'd seen that. Even Charlie used to have nightmares about that monster." 

Hermione went rather quiet, though not for reasons that Molly Weasley could have guessed. She hadn't let go of the 'dust dome mystery'; the notebook she clutched in her pocket listed every clue she remembered from that strange Sunday.

"Well, go on - ask." persisted Molly.

"Ask what?"

" What you've been dying to ask since you've known me."

"It's none of my business."

"It is." Molly was surprisingly hard. "In a year or two you'll be marrying into my family and you want to know if you have to become like me."

Hermione took awhile to voice the plausible half-truth.

"Anyone would be proud to be like you Molly. You make everything alive. You don't just talk about values; you _are_ values. You always make everything better."

"Not always, not everything. But it's enough. Since when did 'anyone' include _you_, Hermione?"

The young woman gaped at her. She was being tested on a subject for which she'd done no preparation.

"This may not look like much," Molly gestured towards the house and garden, "but it's _mine_ and I'm free in it and I can shape it the way I want." She grinned. "Give or take the odd bucket of testosterone." 

Hermione was surprised she used the term, but didn't comment. 

"Better this than getting worn down like Arthur at the Ministry. I wouldn't change places with him, Hermione, not for the world. I'd rather have my own. And I form _people_. I make the future."

__

So that really is what she gets from it. Power - within her limits. Incredible power, or the illusion of it. 

"They're good lads. I've taught them respect. They'll make good partners for good women."

__

And what about the bad women? The scarlet ones who don't make it to your category 'to respect'?

"I started out in the Ministry, you know. Straight from Hogwarts. Decided I'd head the Department of International Co-operation by the time I was thirty."

"So what happened?" 

__

Arthur, followed by Bill.

Molly glanced at the paper. 

"Fear happened. Post-Grindelwald backlash. We'd _returned_ to social structures of the nineteenth century. I'd have had more influence in the old Wizarding Council. The ministry blocked me at every turn. The nearer I got to doing anything important or interesting, the more I was pushed into something boring or trivial."

Hermione tried to think of something more boring, if not exactly trivial, than housework and nappy changing, but couldn't.

"Even though my ideas were used, they were never attributed to me. Not that that mattered, but then this new wizard arrived - two years out of Beauxbatons and a tour round the world, not that bright, but bilingual with a smattering of twenty magical tongues. He gets promoted over my head, and to cap it all starts to - approach me."

"No!"

"Yes. Of course I didn't let it get to me at first, but when I finally complained, no-one took it seriously, no-one believed me, said he was so good-looking and I could defend myself couldn't I? It all came to a head when I did just that - hexed the little sod."

"What with?" she dutifully fed the cue.

"Castratio."

Hermione burst out laughing.

"_Brilliant!_"

"_Not_ brilliant. Got me sacked even though the damage wasn't - well - physically lasting. Arthur was the one who believed me. It took him months, but he managed to checkmate the man when he started on someone else. Got him shunted into some subsection of a subsection of the Department of Mysteries, where he disappeared as he ought."

Hermione hoped Little Sod's purgatory was watching _The_ _Home Life and Social Habits of a British Potions Master._

"But you decided not to go back?"

"I didn't like what it did to me - eating me up with anger and frustrated ambition. I was always right on the edge. Arthur just - helped me back from it. He was so untouched by money and status, so positive, so joyful, so _can-do_. It was like the sun coming out." 

She paused. Hermione thought - _Ron's like that. Maybe not quite the sun; more - well, a nice fire in a cosy room._

"And I wanted more sun. Endless sun."

__

Got endless sons, thought Hermione, but she said nothing.

"Of course we never meant to have such a big family. I was an only child myself. I always thought of a home as a cramped thing. We'd have stopped after Percy. But then Voldemort happened."

She was silent.

"The sun went in? " offered Hermione.

"People - especially children - just disappeared. The day we went to get Charlie's wand - I'd taken Bill and Percy with us, and suddenly we couldn't find Percy. Bill made us go into Knockturn Alley - I Apparated the three of us that short distance, and we were just in time. Percy was taking sweets from this man - he wasn't hooded, he looked friendly - and luckily Percy saw us and ran to me. The man vanished. I started to imagine our family being picked off one by one. I saw people who had no one left, and swore it would never happen to us. Everyone thought we were mad to keep having children at a time like that. I thought it was the sanest thing we could do. We were building a barricade of life. A kind of insurance... That must seem callous."

__

People in the Third World do the same.

"No - I can see the rationale. So Ginny was your last - installment." 

"Ginny turned out to be celebration, not insurance. She was born the night Voldemort disappeared. Of course, lots of celebration kids were born exactly nine months after that..." 

Hermione couldn't help giggling at the thought of Harry's first victory night as one of incessant and extensive bonking. Molly's smile was warm and frank.

__

Gods, it's seductive. Who wouldn't want a Mrs Weasley always to be there, to make things right, to make you at ease with everything? All that generosity, all that nurturing with no limit and no price.

"The thing about a big family like ours is - you'll never want for help. And you're a different generation - you'll be able to have _everything_ Hermione. No son of mine will stop you doing what you want. I've made sure of that."

__

You think you have. They think you have. But how can they help wanting someone just like you? Because of what you do, not what you say. And there's a whole world out there that un-shapes what you've done here.

She did not contradict her. (Ron, after all, had turned out to be _manageable_: you could happily depend on his rock of stubborness - or skip round and ahead of it until he dropped everything to catch you up.) She thought of her own rather frigid relatives. You could do a lot worse than be part of the Weasley clan. She could not quite forget how easily Molly had once believed badly of her; she sensed less warmth towards her than towards Harry. Yet here was Molly understanding her better than her own, highish-achieving mother. 

__

I remind her of what she gave up.

"We had to win this war. We had to believe it _hard_ enough." Molly was murmuring. "I couldn't let Voldemort destroy everything I've created. "

She got up and shook herself a little. 

__

The world where you can make everything all right.

"Lunch'll be about an hour. We can eat outside again."

It was, indeed, a perfect summer's day.

"Can we give you hand? I'll fetch the Quidditch slaves."

"No, no. Ginny's done strawberry duty; the twins'll do the tables. You three enjoy your holiday - that's an _order_."

Hermione gave her hug and strolled off towards the hill.

Another heart put at ease, Maureen O'Reilly crossed her plump arms and surveyed her patch of English heaven.

There would be days and days and days like this.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Severus awoke just after midday, with the sun boring into his eyelids. He had the odd sensation that an alarm bell had gone off inside his head, yet he hadn't heard a thing. He looked around for Salomé. The French windows were ajar, letting in breaths of lake-cooled air. A pile of letters, weighted down with a vial, was on the desk.

He was about to curse himself for oversleeping when he remembered that the holidays had begun. 

The letter heading the pile was from the Headmaster.

Tuesday, 9.30 am (it lied) 

Merlin - what day was it? He blearily checked the calendar in the window recess. Wednesday was glowing. Wednesday! And he had a nagging feeling that there was something he was supposed to have done.

__

Dear Severus,

I didn't like to wake you, as it is high time you slept in. I have taken the liberty of opening the doors for Salomé. (Such a pleasure - to be able to leave doors open.)

There has been a slight change in plans. Your annual appointment at the MOM has been put back to Wednesday evening, but we are still to Portkey over to Chartres on Thursday at midnight - I have had confirmation that your presence will indeed be required. I trust you are free tomorrow. As the reconstruction work has started here, I think it would be a good idea to spend all of Thursday in London anyway. I have arranged Wednesday night's stay at the Leaky Cauldron.

Thursday...Thursday. Something else on Thursday. Damn. He was supposed to have booked a - a _haircut_ for Thursday, which involved the slightly complicated process of getting out of Hogwarts, Apparating to the nearest Muggle village and dealing with vandalised phone boxes and Directory Enquiries; if that failed, going to London and finding the place himself.

__

There is a great deal I should like to discuss with you about the clearing up, and about next year. It will be easier without the disturbances. (Last time we did some rebuilding, my office was in a state of permanent vibration, and my counter-charms apparently caused the new stonework many floors below to crumble. I do believe it was the only occasion on which I saw an enraged house-elf, an experience not to be repeated). Wear Muggle: I have booked us lunch at Granita's. and the Wigmore Hall for the evening (Bartok String quartets and Messian's Quartet for the End of Time – comprehensible enough for me, discordant enough for you.)

Gratitude, like a well-aimed Bludger, struck Severus to the heart.

You will undoubtedly welcome some Mindless distraction directly after Wednesday's MOM session. Suggest 8.30pm (meeting permitting) at usual venue.

Warmest regards,

Albus.

Severus groaned. 

It was one of the minor penances of his time under Dumbledore's care to accompany the Famous Wizard in his _second _favourite hobby.

The 'usual venue' was a rarely closed establishment opposite Finsbury Park tube:

Rowan's Tenpin Bowl.

___________________________________________________________________

Hermione did not rush to join the boys in the paddock. Instead of climbing the hill, she found a corner in a nearby field - and got out her notebook.

Professor Vector's challenge - to read herself and the world instead of books - was proving hard to meet, but she was determined to try. She had never been given to introspection, associating the bouts she'd had of it with _upsets_ - her initial isolation at Hogwarts', the long-ago rift with Harry and Ron over Crookshanks and the Firebolt, then, briefly, with Ron over Viktor Krum. Viktor himself. She evaded such troubles by absorbing ever more from outside of herself. It was the Dementor-trap alone that taught her she was more than books and cleverness, that she might possess originality. 

Her chat with Molly did not incline her to 'read herself'; but how did you read the world? Of course, she'd always been a good observer. The difficult part was to move from observation to understanding.

Her parents' allowance was comfortable, but a Pensieve was beyond it. Somewhat against the spirit of Vector's advice, she'd resorted to turning the world back into text. (When you had too many clues, it helped to see them in ink.) Her notes, she reflected, were less inspired than the literature she ought to catch up on. 

****

Snape-

1) Heard everything (sulking by river) and started fight.

2) Wanted to solve 'unfinished business'. Not nec. Stupid Prank bec. apologised for Shrieking Shack (failed Sh. Sh. payback for failed S.P). More to do with vermin?

3) Looked as if wanted to beat Sir. to pulp. Got badly hurt instead but managed to Apparate.

4) Took all the wands before fight started. Hexed Sir. ONCE only -so lost his wand (and ours) early in fight? (Our wands scattered about at end.)

5) Didn't seem humiliated. 

(But raised Dust-dome so we couldn't see. "not in front of the children".)

6) Q - Wouldn't have lost if kept wand(s) or got them back? Maybe cast hex right at end, but collapsed after, then Disapparated? At what point wand retrieved? (Snape didn't look hexed. Ordinary physical wounds.) Evidence on Sn's jacket: hairs, but no blood. Sn's face - bruises and cuts. Not nec. dog-marks. Jacket removed at some point.

****

7) Q -Why did Sn. seem pleased given Sir. beat him up?

Sirus

1) Called Sn. worthless opportunist - escaped punishment, 'cushy' deal . Picked up on rats thing - made/destroyed 'vermin'. (As if Sn. no better than Pettigrew?) 

2) Still affected by single 'imperius' hex afterwards. 

But Sir. beat Sn. to pulp. Sir. not even scratched.

Q- If Hex cast at start of fight, how did he beat Sn. up if didn't throw it off? Sir. always claims he can fight Imperius. Resisted but didn't throw it off totally? (Animagus form helped or hindered?)

5) Sir. called himself the loser. Said Sn's hex Variant of the Imperius curse. Wouldn't explain. "YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW'' - not scared, embarrassed. (Esp. to me - excused swear word. Doesn't usually.)

6) Swears DIDN'T attack as Padfoot. Resorted to Transforming bec. Sn. took the wands. But Sir. had his wand back by time dust cleared. 

REVERSE of HEX (acc. to Sir.) M - something (overheard, not sure).

7) **Sir. kept saying hadn't wanted fight. Concerned about Sn. after.** **Felt guilty tho he was one got hexed.**

Sirius' views (from talk at night)

8) - Admits hasn't told all. Assume what _did_ say truthful.

-"Not as horrible as it looks" 

- **" Snape was more in control, all the way through, than you'd think." **

-(Q - So Sn. STARTED fight with Imperius-type hex?)

****

-Saw something of Sn. "no student should know." + "could never imagine". 

(_Ha! Don't need imagination, just logic.)_

-Says I'd think better of him if I knew what really happened - only he's keeping quiet for Sn.

****

Q - Why Sir. _ashamed_ if 'won' fair and square (and against odds)? Against a 'nothing' who deserved it? Why opinion of Sn. changed? 

More Stuff re: Snape

8) Immune to healing; refuses dark treatments; fought anyway. (To out-macho Sir. & co?) 

- Sloppy concealment charm (maybe result of injuries, plus looked ill at ceremony.) 

- Threatened me if I told.

- Rooms - not cushy. (Opportunist's would be?) 

Admires Muggle stuff (fits non-magic view of Potions) esp arts. v. g. taste. (Gran: "You can always tell a fascist - no taste." But Uncle Andrew in S.W.P has crap taste.)

- Family pro-Grindewald. No evidence he was, nor of pureblood prej. BUT had early knowledge of Dark Arts. (Never caught using). Whole school career like my first months. Put up a year, so younger than others. Only 20 when V first lost and spied two years (Harry's info from AD). So recruited at school. 

- Accepts surveillance. Snarky, but seems to think it fair. (Hasn't clue what fairness is, mind).

- Foul temper + constant tension from being watched. (There is ALWAYS a reason). 

-Beautiful Woman in photo - relationship fantasy/one-sided even if knew her, bec tore out lines about memory?

__

" Haply I think on thee, and then my state/ Like to the lark at break of day arising/

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;/For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings/That then I scorn to change my state with kings." 

(Sh. Sonnet 29. Thanks Percy. ONE person in Burrow reads!)

BUT - Ring poss Engagement. Broken Time-Turner and seaweed - not conventional mementoes - private meeanings. Robes early 80s. If really had relationship with her, prob. before started teaching - no relationships once under surveillance. 

(Ugh - realised what prob. does in boat.) 

BW looks familiar - Who was she?

-In mourning for his life

-In disgrace with fortune and men's eyes

-Outcast state

-Poor in hope

(Ron - 'At least the git's a _miserable_ git'.)

Hermione read through her clues. 

As usual, she tried identifying what was _assumption_, not fact, to catch herself out.

1) Sir. didn't want to fight at first. Then won fair and square - against odds.

2) Sn. attacked Sir first. Used imp. hex to weaken him.

3) Sir. got his wand back by attacking physically/w Animagus. Duelled until Snape's hex hit him. (Snape still in bad state, afterwards, though managed hex and dodged any from Si.) .

4) Sn. would want fair fight with Sir. otherwise victory hollow.

5) So Sn may have returned Si's wand, hexed him while duelling, then come off worse bec Sir. used Animagus anyway..?

6) Sir. defended himself against Sn's hex, and following attacks, physically - then w. Animagus. 

7) Sn. wanted to beat Sir. to a pulp. 

She circled number 1 -only his word for it (+ Snape's wounds). She circled number 2 - How can I be sure? She crossed out number 3 - wd explain everything, and be typical Sir. but doesn't square with Sn's attitude after. (Smug). She circled number 4: just my opinion. 2 and 4 mutually exclusive. She crossed out number 5 - Doesn't square with non-humiliation. She circled number 6: More likely than 4. Try early Hex scenario. She circled number 7 - Then why didn't he? He and Sirius equally matched. Illness affected odds?

She still couldn't make head or tail of it.

__

Head or tail. 

She tried an occasionally helpful trick - reversing her common-sense assumptions:

1) Sir. did want fight. Won unfairly. (WHAT IF? Drops his usual values when it's Sn.)

2) Sn. didn't attack Sir. (apart from Hex). (POSS) Hex not used to weaken Sir. (THEN WHAT FOR?)

4) Sn. would fight dirty against Sir. (UNLIKELY. Too proud.)

6) Sir. didn't defend himself with Animagus. (Then why tranform?)

7)Sn. didn't want to beat Sir.to pulp.

She read the list, paused, looked at the last sentence, and considered a different inversion:

7a) Sn. wanted Sir to beat him to pulp? 

Surely not. 

But What If? _(Q - Why did Snape seem pleased given Sirius beat him up?)_

2a) Hex not used to weaken Sirius. 

Hexed used to strengthen Sirius?

She went back to her first list and read it through twice. She tried linking clues from both lists. 

Snape was in control + Sirius was 'loser'. 

Sirius did want fight, won unfairly + wasn't hurt

Snape didn't attack Sirius + Sirius felt guilty

Snape smug about outcome.

She identified, with heavy underscoring, the central inconsistency -

****

Snape successfully used 'Imperius' then Sirius beat Snape to pulp

and applied a logical formula.

IF Snape used Imperius AND Sirius was 'loser' THEN Sirius did what Snape - _intended._

The knot was cut.

Snape was in control BUT Sirius beat him up.

Snape was in control AND SO Sirius beat him up. 

She paused, thinking about the Potions master's prison, the sonnet, his strange Honours speech and the taunts by the Thames. 

'Unfinished business': Sirius innocent, officially punished. Snape guilty, not officially punished.

Snape had _Imperio'd _Sirius to carry out - the punishment. 

A very peculiar shudder passed through her. Sirius was right. One shouldn't know this of a teacher.

She persisted with unanswered questions all the same.

Why, if Snape called the shots, had Sirius felt guilty? 

__

Because he didn't usually bend under Imperius - 

Sirius hadn't wanted to fight Snape. Sirius had _always_ wanted to fight Snape. _Therefore:_

Snape made Sirius do - exactly what Sirius wanted to do: he _unleashed_ the Animagus.

__

"Snape was more in control, all the way through, than you'd think."

Hermione's logical formula had an unexpected side effect: it ensnared her imagination.

__

Brilliant.

Scary.

__

But brilliant.

Yet she was not given to introspection, not disposed to interpret herself - or that odd, voyeuristic shudder - too closely. If you had asked her why, of all there was to read in her world, she had selected the text of Severus Snape for scrutiny, she would simply have told you that mysteries annoyed her, and the mystery of the day happened to be an unseen fight. If you had pushed her farther, she might have admitted that a notoriously _unreadable_ text was more of a challenge. She did not, then, consider why, during a quiet moment after lunch, she borrowed Percy's _Hex and Counter-Hex_ to check up on variants of the Imperius curse; nor why she actually made a note of one she thought (with a little rush of triumph) solved the puzzle completely.

__

Levio Moderatium: (Eng. I lift restraint/moderation. Counter-charm: **_M_**oderatio) Used to deprive subject of inhibitions. Legal status: ambiguous - dependent on use and consequences. Convivial use with consent (eg, at celebratory social gatherings) does not carry penalties. 

(Hermione wondered why. It sounded much stronger than a magical equivalent of alcohol or dope. She could never use such a spell on anyone, ever.)

Where deprivation of the subject's conscious will leads to harmful and illegal actions that the subject would not, in his normal state, commit, the penalty is paid by the spell-caster. 

It was unlikely, Hermione thought, that Sirius would press charges.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Percy Weasley was feeling very irritated. This was _not_ his department, and he did _not_ appreciate Fudge's (s)cattiest personal assistant dumping a wad of parchments on his desk with the words: "Gotta clash, gotta dash. Wotsisname from Mysteries handles this, but he's off sick and his deputy's on leave. Be a love and cover - 7.40pm - it's all in there."

Percy sighed. The Department of Mysteries worked, not in Mysterious ways but nonsensical ones. It held its meetings at night for the mere air of secrecy, but slapped confidential information around as if it contained clues no more important than the DP crossword's. The dossier, Percy saw with a slight shock, concerned his former Potions teacher. There was a Hogwarts' contract for one year's lecturing; a fat scroll full of figures that seemed to be some kind of breakdown of Snape's yearly salary (going back to 1983); an elaborately sealed letter addressed to the professor, and a parchment showing a list of questions crossed out with diagonal lines. 

Percy scanned the latter. It disturbed him - a document stamped with the St. Mungo's crest. The questions were - well - _personal_ - and had scant relation to teaching. They were written in the third person (always referring to 'The Subject') and left ample room for comment by the questioner. Percy hurriedly slipped the questionnaire under the other parchments. It was 7.38 p.m., and 'the Subject' was known to be a punctual sort of chap. 

For one indulgent minute, Percy Weasley hated the world. He hated the way it tossed his belief system - that hard work, honesty and ability paid - so casually in his face. Of course, there were his two carefully-engineered promotions (and third pending) - but just when you thought you'd earned some real respect, someone, from some nonchalant _inner circle_, would find a way of informing you otherwise. Four years in the Ministry of Magic had furnished the one lesson he'd absorbed less easily than the twins' master classes in humour: that Merit went unrecognised and Mediocrity unpunished.

He looked through the papers again - to be fair, it all looked quite straightforward. Clearance be hanged - he'd blame Fudge's assistant if there were any fall-out.

The Subject arrived ten minutes late. He did not apologise for it, nor did he conceal his dismay at seeing Weasley-the-Third.

"Why are _you_ dealing with this? It's DoM business."

"_Good evening_, Professor Snape. Do take a seat."

Percy waved away some parchments an untidy colleague had left on the visitor's chair and waited for The Subject to sit.

"To answer your question - I don't know any more than you do. The usual people are off duty - "

"So they've dumped me on you."

Snape had clearly assessed the office and the status of its occupant in a glance. Percy felt the back of his neck heat up.

__

Really, the fellow could try a little common courtesy.

"It really is no trouble, Professor Snape. We just need a signature for your contract, and for you to sign for this letter and - er - I believe these may be for you tax records?"

He tried to hand over the fat scroll. Snape looked at it blankly.

'They've never given me this before. Hogwarts' staff are taxed at source and we're exempt from declaring other earnings. One of the traditional perks.' he added flatly.

__

Introduced by a Slytherin Headmaster, no doubt.

"I'll hold onto it if you prefer," said Percy with even-toned pleasantness. "If you could just sign here and here?"

Snape took the quill and made to sign, but stopped to curl his lip just a tad.

"This is only for a year. I've always had three-year contracts. What's going on?"

Percy took a deep breath and began to plan his put-down of Fudge's PA.

"As I've told you, Professor, I've no idea; but perhaps there's something about it in the letter?"

Snape took the letter with the air of one doing you a favour.

__

Merlin, they're letting him go. And I've_ got to deal with his finding out._

Snape read it through twice. Percy watched him warily. The Subject looked - oh dear, _bewildered_, and finally got to his feet, quietly placing the letter on Percy's desk. He paced the room for a minute, then sat down again, expressionless, twiddling the point of the quill on the wood. Percy tried not to look anxious for either his quill or his desk.

"I'm sorry if it's bad news, sir..."

Snape ignored him. He appeared to be talking to himself.

"This is the Headmaster's doing." 

"It can't be!" Percy burst out. 

"It has Dumbledore written all over it. Well. The cunning old...Well."

The Subject's lips were contorted into the peculiar half-smile. 

__

Well - at least he's putting a brave face on it.

Snape twitched the contract from Percy's fingers and signed. Then he peeled through the three pages of the letter. The last, Percy noticed, was the unmistakable gold and olive-green of Gringott's bank. 

__

Severance pay.

"This will need your signature too, Weasley, as witness to reception. And you'll need to file those salary details with it."

The soon-to-be-ex-Potions Master paused for a full, agonising minute then firmly signed each page. He turned them and placed the lot in front of Percy.

"_If_ you wouldn't mind."

To sneer in the face of adversity - that was something worth learning, Percy thought. He was less antagonistic than his siblings towards the professor, having got through Potions relatively un-picked-on.

"I should like to read this properly. I'd hate to sign to anything I'm not fully -" 

"It makes no difference."

What Percy wanted to do, in fact, was find out if, why - _how_, in all possibility - the benign Albus Dumbledore could turf out one his most loyal servants.

He read. Snape glared at the carpeting.

"But this - this is - my word, what _excellent_ news. I thought - well, never mind - congratulations Professor! You must be very pleased. "

The letter contained the offer of a three-year Sabbatical, to which no particular research conditions were attached. The Ministry greatly regretted that, as Head of Slytherin House, given the delicate' situation of its students, Professor Snape could not be spared in the academic year immediately succeeding the war. However, he was free to take up his Sabbatical at any time after that, with an option to extend it up to five years, in the full understanding that his position would be kept for him whenever he wished to return to it. The Sabbatical was funded by _reserves_ that had been put aside from the difference in the salary Professor Severus Snape had been permitted to receive as an E.U.O (Employee Under Observation) in his years of teaching, and the salary 'customarily' paid to a Hogwart's teacher and Head of House. A modest interest now accompanied the safely invested _reserves_. The yearly stipend would be more than comfortable. Should Professor Snape choose not to take the Sabbatical at this time, his (sic) money would be held and invested until he did, or until he chose to change jobs or retire.

'You must be very pleased' was one of Percy's less perceptive remarks. The Potions master looked far from pleased; though he did not look displeased either. He looked as if he didn't know how he wanted to look.

"Was there nothing else?" Snape finally asked. Percy thought of the questionnaire.

"No, _nothing _else, sir."

To his surprise, Snape seemed disappointed.

"Then please check. I've been led to expect certain changes - a rectification - in the conditions of my accommodation. You're certain there's nothing referring to it?"

Percy picked through the parchments as surreptitiously as he could. 

"Nothing. But rest assured that I will notify the person who should be dealing with the matter." 

He saw Snape's eyes catch the crossed-out parchment. For a moment, a fine thread of anger connected them.

"And all - departmental interrogations - seem to have been dropped."

Snape's face settled slightly. Percy felt recklessly happy. Something was being done _properly_. Someone was getting their _just reward_. With a flourish not entirely uncharacteristic of him, he whipped the offending parchment out of the dossier and sent it to oblivion in a shower of sparks. 

"I'm the only person here methodical enough to notice," he confided. 

Still, the Rewardee looked less happy than he ought. Weasley-the-Third had far too much of his mother in him to bear such inappropriate pathos. He conjured up two large flutes of (real) champagne - duly noting the indulgence in a scroll marked 'Expenses' - and held one out to Snape. 

"One of the perks of being Chief Assistant of the Assistant Chief." 

The Subject stared. 

"A Muggle joke, professor. Flanders and Swann. "

This time The Subject was faintly amused - less at the joke, than at Percy trying to make one. He took one of the flutes from the younger man, who insisted on clinking them.

"I should like to say, Professor, and I'm sure I also speak for those of my family who were informed, that knowing _you_ were working in the eye of the storm, knowing we had someone of your calibre on the case, always gave us reason to hope."

Five years before, five months before, Snape would have shat on the tongue that licked him. Now he couldn't be arsed - and something in Percy Weasley's gaze (he had his mother's eyes) disarmed him.

"To a well-earned break, Professor." 

Snape drained his glass, gave his usual nod, and stumbled out with a muttered 'Thank-you' - though not before his hand had been relieved of its celebratory burden and thoroughly pumped.

For Percy did everything properly, and that included generosity.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was impossible to tell, from a distance, whether Blaise Zabini was a boy or a girl. His was a stubborn ambiguity that no manipulation of clothes, manner or hairstyle would resolve. It had cost him unwelcome attention in his first year and unwelcome lack of it later, leaving him to seek his sparse alliances with the least visible students outside his own house.

The ambiguity mutated to an androgynous allure: subtly appealing to both sexes (and all orientations) but not so perfect as to provoke resentment. By his fifth year, Blaise found himself solicited. Nature's uncompromising gift, read as defiance of convention, did nothing to dispel the idea, held in all the Houses, that he was an individual of great personal integrity.

As a matter of fact, he _was_ an individual of great personal integrity: one of those whom outsider status renders wise rather than bitter. He embraced the turn in his fortunes not with arrogance or reproach, but an assessment of how useful his influence could be. Until then, he'd made few friends, but no enemies.

The second war against Voldemort got underway, and Blaise was well placed for a Slytherin who meant to make a difference. He had no one to fear and none to betray.

Just what he had done to earn his Commendation as well as his Head Boy-ship was a mystery to the leading lights of Gryffindor. Fudge had not invited the 'Commended' to speechify, but simply acknowledged Zabini's 'protection of Hogwarts' students'. It was a mystery he was in two minds about unveiling to his new working partner - especially after he read the trenchant interview she gave to the _Daily Prophet. _

He adored people with a vision. 

When the empty summer fireplace in the Burrow's kitchen erupted in green flames on Wednesday night, however, the limits of Blaise's allure looked as if they were to be tested. Most of the Weasleys present regarded him with a touch of suspicion. 

He greeted everyone by name - correctly - introduced himself, and apologised for 'bursting in' on them. 

"Could you tell me - is Hermione Granger staying here?"

The flames rendered him even more indefinable.

" Yes, I am. " Hermione stepped into view of the chimney and peered through the fire at the room behind Blaise's head: he had practised the exquisite courtesy of using Vyoo powder rather than Floo powder. This gave you a visual connection to the requested fireplace without actually transporting you to it. 

The new Head Boy was crouching in what was unmistakably a Council flat high up a tower block. Identical and equally dour blocks cut the light from the window behind him, though the room itself looked pleasant enough. She could make out two people she assumed were his parents watching television. What she could see of his fireplace had a decidedly DIY air. 

__

A Muggle-born Slytherin without his own Owl. Well - she squashed a newly exposed prejudice - _why not?_

"Oh - er, hello Blaise. How are you?"

"Great thanks. And you?"

"Um - fine."

"Listen - I just read your interview with Skeeter. It was great. Did you hypnotise her or what?"

Hermione shrugged, and gulped her thanks. 

"It gave me an idea," Blaise continued, gabbling over her discomfort. "I met the woman who's over-seeing the next edition of _Hogwarts', a History_ at the awards last Sunday - Alison McDougall - Morag's aunt. Well, you know how the nineteenth century editions always had an Afterword by the current Head Boy -"

Molly Weasly listened as she trimmed seakale. This Head-Boy-who-wasn't-a-Weasley obviously knew how to engage someone like Hermione. 

"I thought - wouldn't it be good if we revived the tradition? But made it a joint Head Girl and Head Boy piece, of course. Especially as we're from - well, let's face it - opposite Houses..."

Hermione smiled. It was true - Hogwarts' loudest dramas always turned around Gryffindor and Slytherin, with the sensible Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs as the buffers. Even the arrangement of the Great Hall tables illustrated that.

"That's a brilliant idea." (She was already picturing - not to be _too _ambitious - a footnote on house-elves.) "Do you think Mc Dougall will be interested?"

"Pretty sure - she was saying the book hasn't had a proper revision for years. It's totally out of touch - you'd think New Historicism never happened."

In Hermione's intellectual universe, it hadn't. Molly watched her jaw drop.

"The thing is, we need to be quite quick about it. They're rushing to go to press at the beginning of August. I've - um - already written a note to give her if you agreed." 

Hermione was certain that, until Harry's Quidditch trial was over, she'd be abandoned to her own devices.

"I'm not doing much this week...Shall I Owl you a few ideas?" 

"No," – Blaise sounded oddly alarmed, but then seemed to come to a decision. "It's not safe to send Owls to me." He leaned forward, speaking quietly. "The kids round here keep breaking onto the roof to throw bricks at the birds. They've killed quite a few owls."

"I'm so sorry. That's horrible," murmured Hermione.

"That's why Dad made the fireplace. You can send stuff by Floo if you wrap it in tinfoil, but I was thinking it might be easiest if we just met up somewhere."

From the other side of the fireplace, Mr Zabini had taken his eyes off the Channel 4 news and shifted them onto the young lady talking to his ungirlfriended son.

"Whaya dinna youse invaihta youra frienda te comma hee-yre." 

Zabini Senior's accent was an unwritable blend of Glaswegian and Italian - of which Blaise's held no trace (except when talking to him.)

"You'd be very welcome to come to the Burrow, Blaise." said Molly, at the same time. "Hermione's with us all summer."

Hermione and Blaise exchanged a look of pure understanding - 

__

This could be embarrassing. And how can anyone work in a noisy place like this?

"Maybe a coffee in Diagon Alley" said Hermione carefully.

"Bit packed now it's reopened. Astronomic Alley's still ok. The Observatory's dead quiet and you can work there for hours without the waiters bothering you." 

Astronomic Alley, concealed amongst the Arcades in Cardiff, had a somewhat nerdy reputation that took the edge off the prices its name aspired to. Knowing it had hidden treasures like a writer-friendly café was cool in a way Hermione found totally unthreatening.

"Sounds perfect. How about tomorrow - what time do they open?"

"Ten. The Floo takes you to Stargazers'. I'll meet you there."

The delaying of NEWTs was especially irksome when you could finally Apparate. Holiday agic was still banned. Happily Floos and Portkeys, as 'public transport', didn't count. 

Molly's mind raced. This Blaise Zabini was charming, unusual and _obviously bright_. He put her poor dear Ron in the shade, and had none of the repellent snobbery of the Slytherins she knew of. Of course, the creature _might_ prefer boys, but you never knew these days, and Hermione was going to be working with him. Yes, better to have the two of them under her eye - as long as Ron could be trusted to demonstrate his new maturity and forbearance.

"You will both come back here for a proper lunch?" she insisted. 

Blaise was now framed by hovering parents. A rapid volley of Glaswegian - Italian-flavoured and Original - hit him from both sides.

"That would be lovely, Mrs Weasley. And Mum says could you all come to Tea on Saturday in return. She wants to Market-Research her spaghetti sauces on you." 

Slytherins, Hermione had to admit, could be wonderfully tactful. Blaise had avoided inviting her alone - and the return dinner invitation ('Tea') was presented as the guests doing a favour. Social Score 20 all. The Zabini's were hard to _place_ - somehow the people and the environment didn't match. 

A handful of Weasleys had now gathered round the novelty in the chimney. Arthur pushed in front of a decidedly knackered Percy, looking particularly intrigued.

"But aren't you the people who make ices? I'm sure I bought a 'Zabini' cornet from one of those _refrigging _vehicles in -"

__

"Da-a-d..." 

Arthur's gallivants in the Gorbals (Abuse of Muggle Artifacts) was the stuff of family groans.

Blaise had kept his face very straight.

"That," he murmured, "was before the Ice-cream wars." 

"People fought over _ice-cream?_" spluttered Molly.

"Yes," Blaise glanced up at his parents. " But don't get them started or you'll get the whole saga - Ice Wars, Frozen Empire Strikes Back and Return to Castlemilk."

He grinned. 

"See you tomorrow Hermione. Good night, Mrs Weasley, Mr Weasley, Ginny, Percy."

Blaise and his Mundane context vanished. 

"He seems nice," commented Ginny. "How did he get through toffee-nosed Slytherin?" 

To Hermione, Molly Weasley suddenly looked quite calculating.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bowling alley was smellier in summer. Just what the Headmaster found appealing in the combined whiffs of overpriced beer, sweaty armpits and sweaty-trainers-with-veneer-of-sterilising-spray, Severus didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to. There was no denying that you got your authentic slice of Muggle Life. Wizard simulacra of Muggle traditions (a small but critical part of the magical tourist industry) bore the same relation to the real thing as Disneyland castles to châteaux on the Loire. 

The noise, for once, was more than welcome. Admittedly, he shared Dumbledore's interest in overheard conversations. Shifts in communal obsessions marked the changes in the great Muggle world, whose non-literary form struck Severus as a swarming anonymity. He and Albus had indirectly witnessed the high-energy corrosion of the Thatcher years, the apathetic shrugs of Major's Britain and the ersatz optimism of New Labour. For the game itself Snape had less affection. Hell, in his view, had a bowling alley. He'd evaded boredom only by personifying the pins. Thus were Marauders smashed, Harry blasted, Moody, Malfoys, Crabbe-n-Goyles, Karkaroff, and every DADA teacher flattened. Voldemort had been beyond the mind-game's sour jokes, and Dumbledore had come in for it just the once - that fit of resentment after Potter's third year, when the Headmaster shamed him over the Lupin affair. Regrets and his New Improved Wolfsbane were duly supplied. In finding Sirius _generally_ innocent, though, Dumbledore had overstepped the mark. Severus had said nothing, taken a swing at the imagined twinkle - and paid for the pleasure in guilt.

"Tired, Steve?" 

They were queuing for shoes in the main concourse, and could of course be overheard by the Muggles. A muffling charm was feasible, but Dumbledore liked to do these things 'without tricks', and could pull off a passable Estuary.

"Not at all," (Severus steeled himself - his Estuary was less secure) "Al." 

It was a lie. He was drowsy, not restful, from the long sleep, and the afternoon had been one of hurried little tasks. The hair booking he'd managed (a cancellation, though the receptionist gave the distinct impression that appointments at _Toby's_ were nebulous things). Black was Owled, and he'd replied briefly to the other letters - one from Blaise Zabini (sent in _Iceland_ oven-wrap; Flooed back in same) and one from a group of neutral ex-Slytherins who ran a potions company. They regularly picked his brains and were now offering him a job - 'No Voldie - no excuses!' He'd declined, washed, walked to Hogsmeade and Flooed to the Ministry of Magic meeting, where he'd barely taken in the proceedings. 

"Ready then"?

They nabbed some chairs by their lane and changed footwear.

'Al' was dapper in blue jeans, matching denim bomber and Hawaiian shirt. His hair and beard were magically shrunk. So, it seemed, was his body. It always shocked Severus to see the outline of it so clearly. The Headmaster looked thin, flabby and frail, as if his majesty were kept in his robes. 'Steve' wore his usual black - this time as T- shirt, jeans and tacky blouson version of his jacket (worse for wear, despite Granger's clean-up.) He hoped his transfigurations and supplementary concealment charms would last.

Severus simply nodded. His voices subsided to murmurs against the babble as they pushed their way through to their aisle. The midweek evening session was surprisingly lively.

Their game began. 

They chucked the balls in companiable wordlessness, until Albus said -

"Not playing with your customary vigour, Steve? Lost your old targets?"

(Convinced of Estuary's classlessness, he kept his usual vocabulary.)

'Steve' was actually struggling to compose a speech. The Headmaster's gift of five years' freedom demanded Thanks on a grand scale, but he had little experience in Thanking. Hunched over the ball and about to cast, he looked up.

For a smile rarely practised, it was damn convincing. He remembered to use his eyes more than his mouth. 

(Dumbledore always thought it was like seeing the hidden part of a tapestry long rolled up: you marvelled at the still-vivid colours beside the sun-faded ones; seeing, in that miraculously-preserved expression, the boy who'd never been.)

"I 'spose Wotsisname took my grudges with him, Al. No more battles, no more sulks."

The dig at Albus' belittling of certain passions in his life hardly went unnoticed, but the Headmaster side-stepped them. 

"And how will you do without your battles?"

Severus dropped his head again, and let the ball roll limply. The pins remained standing.

"Fine, Al, just fine." 

__

He's up to something. If Black's been blabbing - 

He did the smile again.

"But you know that already."

He threw another ball and finished his set.

"This - Sabbatical. You _arranged_ it - didn't you? "

The Headmaster rolled a ball in his hands. He knew just what was bothering Severus.

"Guilty as charged. When I wasn't allowed to employ you on a proper basis, I made it - impossible - for the officials to keep the salary difference in their coffers without grave loss of face. Then I brought in this _Bank Director_ to organise the investments..."

He toppled the pins in one go. Urmuck-the-Brass was popularly known as He-Who-Must-Be-Avoided-at-Any-Cost. 

Severus did a few preparatory swings with his next ball in what he trusted was a laid- back manner.

__

Humour him; we're doing this for the last time.

"It is not from my personal funds;" said Dumbledore. "It's not charity. It's _your _money. Except for being bound by the Sabbatical to stop you giving it away." 

"Ow- why should you think I'd do that?"

The ball was on his foot. Albus retrieved it 

"I'm afraid your room wasn't the only part of your life the Ministry got to examine." 

He sighed emphatically. 

"I wish I'd known before now. Your account was such a credit to you, I had trouble convincing them I hadn't guessed and tipped you off had to hint some of your anonymous donations were a bit _naughtier_ than they seemed. Don't look at me like that, Steve. Did your reputation a world of good - the psychiatrists thought it a healthy sign."

To his delight, Steve' had already snatched the offered ball and hurled it down the alley. Then another, and a third for one last obstinate target. The Hat's most worrying observation had been: _I can't find any anger. None._

"To give the Ministry its due, it was one of their people who advised ring-fencing your savings once they were released. By Sabbatical was my idea, mind."

They waited for the balls to dribble back.

"You want me to go, Al."

__

Re-ignition Burning Eyes. 

"As much as Prospero did Ariel. Like him, I keep delaying your release." 

__

Oh gods, not the Bardic casting session. Definitely up to something.

"Ariel's done his jobs and is grateful for the golden handshake. My students would do better with a new Head of House."

"You underestimate the glamour of being a spy."

Steve' indiscreetly spat the word _Pah_ in a most eighteenth century manner.

"Remember how few students know your full history, that those who do are sworn to secrecy. The way your Slytherins will tell it, their Head of House spent years drawing the hatred and suspicion of all decent people on his head to bolster his heroic deception and cunning manipulation of the Dark side. None of which is untrue. You are their answer to the Golden Gryffindors." (_Pah!)_ "But I haven't engineered the delay only to exploit you further, much as you are needed this year."

A most twentieth century Oy' interrupted them.

"You playing or you gassing? If you're gassing we'll have your patch."

They repelled the intruder with thoroughly disquieting stares and returned to the game.

__

All right Headmaster, have the next move. 

"Why not deliver the whole speech instead of pretending this is a conversation."

Dumbledore got in another strong shot, smug in his unique ability to manipulate Snape.

"I too intend to take a Sabbatical in a year's time, Steve, but mine will be - permanent. I do not wish to spend my last year at the school without you there. I should miss you." 

His next throw was oddly feeble. 

Snape stared at his employer and protector in astonishment. He had always understood Dumbledore's care of him to be as the artisan's for a tool; his paternal kindness that of one in the general business of soul-saving; the conditionality of _that_ all too obvious in the whipping-away of approval at any lapse in maturity.'

.

No one can _nail_ Albus Dumbledore. He bounces and bobs and is lighter-than-air. With him, affection, not reputation, is your bubble. It tantalised Severus for twenty years: ever within reach, never to be grasped. In wartime only did the bubble settle and solidify - into something else: mutual dependency, intimacy of crisis, trust. 

Severus had been certain of Albus' trust, hopeful of his respect - doubtful of his liking. So he'd mirrored the bubble: a dance of tentative approaches and cold retreats. 

Dumbledore, speaking very low, transmitted his message without ambiguity.

"We have had so little time, _Severus_. No real time; free from threat, from your history and mine, from inequality and obligation. I feared so very much that you would be sacrificed by others, that there would never be time."

He punctuated it, wandlessly and imperceptibly, with a mild Confundus charm. It took five more shots to finish off the pins, and he straightened up rather slowly.

__

He likes me; I'm dear to him. He wouldn't have done the same for anyone. 

"It is important for me that you unlearn one of my earliest lessons to you."

Only Albus can pull off such sentimentality, but the admission and the apology arrive twenty-four years late. Recompense is a dish best served hot.

"That you are not of lesser value than the others. Nor merely my dark Ariel."

The bubble Affection is in Severus' hands; robust as the ball he's supposed to throw, and getting heavier by the second.

__

Oh Gods, Dumbledore, not now. Not when I can't - Not now. 

He was going to hurt - _disappoint_ - the Headmaster, and that would be the memory of Severus Snape: ingratitude, after everything done for him; betrayal, after all. 

The bubble weighs like canon-ball, but he can't let it drop. 

There Dumbledore leaves it. He has a great deal more to do, but it must be in stages, the coils tightened bit by bit.

They finished the game in silence, for Severus found he could communicate nothing - save his usual submission to the pleasures of fish-and-chips. 

He cast his last shot at the inaccurate memory of his own reflection - and missed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione, clutching her notebook (minus the calculations about Professor Snape, which for some reason she'd torn out and disposed of) arrived at ten o'clock sharp in Astronomic Alley. Blaise was waiting for her. He proffered a clothes-brush as she stepped out of the Fireplace. 

"Let's get out of here pronto."

__

Stargazers sold the latest astronomical toys to the sound of very loud, very bad music. 

After that, the café was blissful. It was a worn-looking – no, _burnished - _place. Everything in it was dark, buffed up and clunky. Coffee came in an enamel pot with jugs of warm milk, cold milk and a plate of chocolate biscuits. 

"Looks like a Ravenclaw hangout, " said Hermione, recognising some of the clientèle from the years above her.

"It is. There're debating evenings and guest speakers here every Wednesday. It used to be the inn where the goblins planned their Second Rebellion. Actually, it's still where most rebellions are planned."

He grinned. 

"Do you know a lot of people in Ravenclaw?" asked Hermione.

"A few," said Blaise, in a way that could have meant all of them or one of them. "How come you don't? You could qualify as one."

The bluntness caught Hermione off guard. Blaise had picked up on the wistfulness in her question. He was determined to befriend the Dementor Girl, and had decided directness was the best strategy. 

"I suppose I've always had Harry and Ron. They keep you pretty busy;"

"But they're _Boys,_" protested Blaise, as if he, personally, didn't belong to that category.

Hermione stiffened.

"Well, I was never into girly stuff - like Lavender and Parvati obssessing over make-up. Harry and Ron's adventures were much more fun."

"_Their_ adventures? What about _your_ adventures - in the head?"

"Got them in the Library."

"Without side-kicks for the road?"

Silence.

"The Ravenclaw women in our year – they're not bad you know; Lisa Turpin's as good as got Binns chucked out – he's under observation next year – and Mandy Brocklehurst runs this politics and philosophy group –"

Blaise's act, while not un-together, was far off its eventual refinement. He had been lonely too long, then under-cover too long, to get every new interaction right. The direct strategy suited his current state too well. He couldn't resist spilling out his precocity, his warmth, his fanaticism, indiscriminately.

"Sounds like fiddling while Hogwarts' burned." declared Hermione; "At least I worked on something _useful_."

Blaise looked her straight in the eye.

"Long term, what they're doing _is_ useful. It's about breaking the British wizard mindset. That begins with barriers between the houses; Voldemort exploited it so well. Do you know how many unemployed ex-Hufflepuffs joined him? Inferiority complex learned at school, fewer mates around to make you feel ok - tendency to be loyal and devoted. Perfect rank-and file DE fodder. "

Hermione nibbled the chocolate from a biscuit.

"But the Ravenclaws are so snotty! They make people feel they aren't clever enough for their little cliques."

"The clique's got people from three houses. They only didn't approach Gryffindors because they thought there'd be too much tension with Slytherins, and the Slytherins needed them more. And they did work on useful short-term stuff. They'd have got further if you'd been on board."

"What sort of _stuff_?"

"One for the Dementors,for starters; a Matrona charm. They noticed Gryffindor witches were the only girls who didn't have real problems with the _Patronus,_ even with Professor Lupin coaching loads of upper years to success; Mandy reckoned the non-Gryffindors couldn't identify with a father-figure emblem."

Hermione worked though the not-chocolate bit.

"Why wasn't it taken up – before my trap I mean?"

"Ravencluff rigour. Huffleclaw hesitation." (Blaise was already practising the art of the soundbite.) "They wanted to be certain, they wanted to be totally right, not risk looking like idiots. Lost time arguing whether they should be de-gendering Patronus rather than creating a matriarchal rival."

Hermione hmphed. No wonder they hadn't got anywhere.

"I did try to push them, but – well, I had a lot going on. Then you stepped in with your trap and your partnership with Vector."

The Dementor Girl considered the implications of all this.

"They must think I'm a total cow."

Blaise was relieved she'd said it first.

"Well - more the Queen Bee; they don't know you, they're jealous, and feel rejected by you."

"How d they work that out? I've never _rejected_ them."

"You've never _noticed_ them."

"That's not difficult when you never have lessons together."

"Yeah, it's a bummer. And us Slytherins to blame because if we went into the same classroom as the Huffs we'd eat them alive."

"Well you would, wouldn't you?"

Blaise smiled. 

"There _was_ a boy the year below me who didn't taste too bad."

He garnered - and recognised - the _look _immediately: the disappointed-then-relieved one that said - _Oh goody, he's Gay. Can relax. He'll spy in the enemy camp for me and make a fun accessory for date-free clubbing._

Or for having coffee and biccies in places that aren't pubs. Blaise was well aware of that special, exquisite bond between straight women and gay men.

The divulsion softened Hermione's next question.

"Why are you telling me this? I thought we here to discuss this article."

"We _are. _This is what's it all about - we could change so much at Hogwarts', given what we've done and where we're from. Now's the time. People always underestimate an interregnum - when history slips in unnoticed and changes everyone's direction. H.A.H will be in Flourish and Blott's by the time term starts, and if we write something really persuasive, we'll be well set up. But take it from a Slytherin - politics with a small 'p' can really mess things up. You don't want get all snagged up in personality clashes you could have prevented, or have your authority questioned from the off. Besides," (he dimpled into a grin) "I'm not the sort of person who'd use _your_ problems to make myself look good."

Hermione's cheeks burned. He'd understood, before she had, the implication of her question.

"It's all right", Blaise reassured her. "You're only judging Slythes by the brats who draw attention to themselves."

They both fell silent, thinking of the same Brat. Hermione drained her coffee and refilled before speaking.

"Blaise - what happened to Draco? Do you know?" 

Draco Malfoy had disappeared from Hogwarts a year before the siege, and had not been seen since. His departure had been a relief to most - he was the fatal chink in Hogwarts' armour. "Better out than in", people joked. Assuming he'd gone to Voldemort, many were surprised when Draco did not appear with the Death Eaters' army surrounding the school. Lucius Malfoy's timely defection to the Light might have explained this, but whereas Malfoy senior had been glimpsed before he left the country, of Draco there was no sign. There was some speculation that he was dead along with his mother.

Blaise thought about the conversation he'd had with his Head of House on Honours Day. 

__

Bloody fool won't go to Beauxbatons, insists on re-integrating into Hogwarts. Deal with it by yourself if you can, or get Granger in with you. Not the other Slytherins - we want Draco out of their way. Granger has more reasons than most to loathe Malfoy, but you'll find her perfectly co-operative if you convince her it's for the general good. In fact, given the clout she has, it might be an idea for you to cultivate Granger

Draco was the blot on his visionary landscape, _the_ Slytherin you had to explain away. Hermione seemed concerned as well as curious, however. 

__

She's insufferably high minded, but that can be useful - no bad thing to be associated with on your part either. 

It had galled Blaise not to be considered high minded himself, but, as the professor had said, "_If people think you're high minded they'll say you were miss-Sorted._"

Blaise leaned forward and, checking the nearby tables were still empty, spoke low.

"He's alive. He'll be coming back to Hogwarts. In fact, he never left."

"_What?"_

"He was there all the time. In the South East Tower - you know - the one they never use?"

Hermione nodded. 

"It used to be the Slytherin tower didn't it?"

"Yeah - before we put ourselves into the dungeons."

__

The purge of 1791, Hermione thought - which wasn't in _Hogwarts, a History._

"But - I mean - what was he _doing _there? All that time..."

"Good question. And between now and start of term we need to come up with an answer that works, otherwise Draco's a loose canon just waiting to go off."

"Works in what way exactly?"

"Something that stops people asking, leaves him a bit of dignity and keeps him quiet. The thing is, Draco never actually joined the Death Eaters. We prevented it."

Hermione rested her chin on her hands, looking thoughtful.

"Hogwarts _imprisoned _him."

"Hogwarts _protected _him. He was under a lot of coercion from his father, of course; but he overestimated his standing in Slytherin. Draco assumed that the majority of us would join Voldemort with him, but that - didn't happen."

Hermione smiled. "Shows people are never what they seem."

Blaise didn't smile.

"We prevented it," he said, a little curt. "Anyway, the point came when Draco decided it was in his better interests to defy Lucius. He went to the Headmaster to ask for protection and to - well offer his services as some one who could infiltrate - wheedle stuff out of his father, though he wasn't wild about taking the Mark. Dumbledore was all for trusting him, and brought in Snape, but Snape refused to play ball. Said Draco wasn't up to it, he'd crumble under pressure. He swore he couldn't be relied on, that he was interested in protecting himself, not others. So Draco insisted on taking Veritaserum - but what he confessed under it just proved Snape's point. Draco has no values. He doesn't know what he thinks because he's always been thought _for_. They all agreed he was especially vulnerable, that he'd be targeted by his father, forced to make a breach in Hogwarts' defences. So they gave him a choice: take his chances by getting expelled from Hogwarts for suspected Death Eater activity, and prove Snape wrong if he could - the Aurors would be told - or stay under the school's protection indefinitely, but removed from all contact with other students. Non-magical room, no wand. He chose the low risk option - not very Slytherin. Malfoy senior disowned him. '_Pathetic little tyke don't even make a decent turncoat'._"

"But if they'd let Draco out he could have betrayed Snape! I can't believe Dumbledore was stupid enough to blow his cover in front of Draco just because he came to him with a sob story about his father." 

"Not stupid at all - he was being very clever. Dumbledore knew he could invoke the restrictions against Obliviate on wizards. It forced the situation - once Draco _knew, _they could lock him up with impunity. Or if he'd been really, really trustworthy, let him out to be a hero with the knowledge he needed. Then of course Snape was master at playing to both sides at once - giving everything a double meaning that really _was _doubled up - read the way different people wanted to read it."

Hermione nodded, remembering some knife-edge moments in their Potions classes.

"Draco couldn't know whether Snape was bluffing Dumbledore or Voldemort." Blaise continued. "Whether _he_ was now in peril from Snape-the Death Eater, or if _Snape-the-spy _thought he was in peril from himself. All he knew was that when Snape flatly rejected him as an infiltrator he was basically saying Draco was useless - as a Death Eater _or _as a member of the Order. Draco's really got it in for Snape. It's like he confiscated his rebellion, made him _miss _the War. He's done nothing to prove himself either way."

Hermione tried to imagine a life held in suspension like that. 

"Was he treated all right? I mean, to be _completely _isolated. It'd drive anyone mad - especially some one as _simple _as Draco - no inner resources."

Blaise enjoyed the bitchiness disguised as concern.

"He was always in touch with the teachers. They kept his theoretical studies going, he had the House-elves attending to him - I think he learned to be much nicer to them. It was just Pansy and I who had contact. We wrote to him, sent him books and tapes. He had to learn to use a Muggle radio-cassette. With no magical reception up there, he could get stuff from the real world instead."

Hermione had never met anyone else at Hogwarts who referred to the Muggle world, even ironically, as the 'real' one. 

"Things must have got pretty bad for him though - he got addicted to _The Archers._"

Hermione snorted.

"Better not let that one slip into the cover story."

"Or him slip up the tower every night at 7."

"So is Pansy still his girlfriend?" 

"No way. She ditched him very quietly at the start of the war. She still feels responsible for him, though. Fought tooth and nail to have him let out for his mother's funeral, though in the end it was Lucius' turnabout allowed that."

Hermione was looking very rueful.

"Of all the people I had down as Death Eater dolls, Pansy was top of the list."

"Same here. She was the first we found out."

"Who is this is 'we' you keep talking about? People are saying there must have been a Slytherin cabal working for the Light. That was you and who else?"

Time for more divulsionary tactics.

"I suppose you could say I began it. Don't look impressed. It's not an impressive story. It's not like Harry facing down Voldemort, or you creating the Dementor trap. _I'm_ what prevented Slytherins joining Voldemort - not _just_ Slytherins, but over half my - um - targets were in my own house."

"But that's _amazing_."

He was suddenly toneless.

"False recruiting. Do you remember these?" He fished around in his satchel and produced some leaflets. "I've saved them to give Alison Mc Dougall. They're putting in a chapter on Hogwarts during the second war."

The leaflets were and weren't familiar - smaller, non-descript Slytherin-directed versions of the warnings that had appeared in all common rooms at the beginning of their fifth year.

**__**

DON'T LET VOLDEMORT TRAP YOU

As a student of Slytherin House, you are more likely than most to be identified by Death Eaters as a potential recruit. Even if your family is not Pureblood, even if they have never been involved in Dark Magic (or dubious business practices!) the mythology surrounding our House has become 'fact' for both sides. 

Voldemort wants YOU.

Do not believe that he will give you power or privilege or freedom. 

He will promise you the world, but never give it to you.

What he wants is your servitude.

He will do anything to get it. 

He will threaten your family, he will threaten anyone you care for

- and he will carry out his threats.

Your family may already be his servants. 

That does not mean you have to be.

You are not a puppet.

Recruitment happens by direct approach or by letter. 

Do not put yourself in the position of being approached directly - once direct contact is made, you are trapped. NEVER go unaccompanied to Hogsmeade. Have at least one person in the group you are with from another House. Do not wear a Slytherin scarf or tie or any insignia that marks you out as a 'patriotic' House member. This strategy may seem unworthy, but it is necessary. Your life and your freedom depend on it.

Recruitment letters come in many forms. 

Some are open and threatening. Most take on the guise of ordinary 'recruitment' drives from the business community - particularly for sixth and seventh year students. Even if a 'milk-round' letter appears to be genuine, DO NOT ANSWER IT. You are not risking your career. All that stuff is on hold now that we are on the brink of War. Above all do not go - even accompanied - to any rendez-vous proposed by the letter.

Open all letters you receive in company.

If you receive a recruitment letter, do not panic,however threatening it is.

Go to our Head of House or to the Headmaster WITHOUT DELAY.

They know what to do and will enable you to protect yourself and yours.

If your family is putting pressure on you, the Headmaster's door is open.

"We - I - slipped fake recruitment letters into people's dorms. It was important that they didn't come by normal owl post, that people thought it was all happening by sneakier channels. They had to be staggered pretty carefully, but about a quarter of the Slytherin sixth and seventh year had had one by the end of autumn term. I cut in front of nearly all the real recruitment letters."

"But why did it have to be you - why not the staff?"

"In case people traced the letters back to sender. No one in Slytherin knew anything about me. I could have been on either side. But I knew about Slytherins.I'd been watching them for five years. I had an idea who was more likely to turn, who not. The students who went straight to Dumbledore were no problem. Pansy did that. And poor Millicent." 

His hands balled suddenly into fists.

"Wish I'd known Millicent sooner. She was all right, Mills. Bloody terrified me in my first year though; I didn't notice she could be a friend 'til the war."

Hermione tried to look sympathetic. She knew it was irrational, but somehow, she'd never quite forgiven Bulstrode for turning her into a cat.

"What about the ones who didn't go to Dumbledore?"

"Well, anyone who went to Snape got a fun time while he sussed out if they'd come thinking he was on the Dark side or on ours. He passed them on to Dumbledore, who dealt with them personally or dumped them on the Ministry. The ones who kept stum, who didn't go to anyone, got a second letter, insisting on a meeting. If they didn't turn up, I approached them - or as the plan progressed, one of the people who'd gone to Dumbledore did. We tried to get past the letter-stage as fast as possible, so that the recruiting _seemed_ to be happening directly, in-House. Once we had a few people we could trust, it proceeded like that. Got people much more creeped out, which helped. We worked through the whole house, and many outside it. Some students even approached _us,_ thinking we were Dark. We reported them to the Ministry. When people turned up for their rendez-vous, they met with Aurors. Always just within the school grounds, so they'd be whipped over the boundary and Apparated direct to the D.o.M."

"And _then _what?" Hermione almost squeaked.

"I hate to think. Some came back converted to our side. The rest came back with no memory of what had happened to them. DoM exemptions in times of war and so on. We watched them to see if they got real approaches afterwards. In some cases we sent another letter to test them again. They've ended up a bit like Draco - did nothing, estranged from family, missed the War and don't know why. The Ministry has records on them. They'll be surveyed indefinitely."

Hermione shuddered, and retreated, as she often did, into the mechanics of things.

"But - how could Dumbledore be absolutely sure of people? It would have only taken one person cunning enough to seem to play ball to have blown the whole thing open. Were they all force-fed Veritaserum?"

"Oh no - that's illegal. There were other ways - much simpler."

Blaise let her hang a few moments, then leaned even closer, whistling a jaunty tune she'd heard many years ago.

__

"There's nothing that's inside your head the Sorting Hat can't see

I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me."

Hermione was beginning seriously to dislike that Hat.

"It was still really dangerous. I don't think you should feel ashamed. You were _brilliant._" 

(She supposed she should think of another word, but as it had been so serviceable in the last day or two, didn't bother.)

"Thanks for the benediction."

Hermione buried her head in her hands.

"I'm not made to get it right with Slytherins am I?"

"You're doing fine." 

Blaise pushed the last chocolate biscuit in her direction and caught a waiter's eye for more coffee.

"So - where do we start with this Afterword?" Hermione asked.

"Getting Mc Dougall to make it Preface, since most people don't read through to the Afterword?"

Hermione could imagine Ron giving just the same advice, though in a different style.

Blaise put a sheaf of stapled papers on the table.

'Photocopies of the chapters on the houses. Didn't want to lug the whole book here, and we can scribble on these. I really miss magic sometimes. This took ages - the paper kept jamming because the post-office copier's really crap, and I had to stop people looking over my shoulder to see what it was, which isn't easy when you're in a queue of people wanting to do their DSS forms and tax returns before going to work or sign on."

The Castlemilk estate was clearly a starkly different environment from Hermione's well-serviced corner of London. She felt slightly guilty that Blaise had already worked so hard but was letting her cash in on his idea.

"I thought we could get some ideas by taking each house chapter and noting everything that isn't really true, or is an exaggeration - and anything they've missed out that you know of. Each do our own then swap - then do the Ravencluffs?"

"Maybe we should consult some Ravencluffs? Then put in an acknowledgment for their contribution?" 

"You'll be a politician yet."

"It is a good place to start," said Hermione. "It was _Hogwarts a History_ that made me thinkGryffindor was the best."

"So _that's _why you weren't sorted to Ravenclaw. Did you just ask?"

"No - the Hat tricked me. It went - 'Hmmn - high intellectual aspirations - you expect to walk into Ravenclaw with those brains, don't you? But I'm not sure. You haven't had the most _rigorous_ education. Not a selective school was it - no Latin, no benefits of the private sector training. Might not have the _background_ ' 

Blaise was laughing. 

"So of course I was off, telling him he was being TOTALLY elitist and that my local Juniors was JUST as good as any snotty Prep school and I'd already taught _myself_ Latin for spells. 'Gryffindor - thought so!'"

Hermione didn't counter this by asking Blaise about his Sorting. She thought it might be a touchy subject.

Then they settled down to work, eagerly scoring their texts. For the more they analysed the present, the more they planned their utopia, the more they found themselves distracted by the sheer weight of tradition in those photocopied pages. It was complex, it was _pernickety, _tracing the lines of cause and effect from past to present, wondering what could be disentangled and cast ahead.

In the café that hatched the second Goblin rebellion, two little Angels of History skipped sideways into the future, looking every which way.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I sweated blood for this. Even if it wasn't worth it, please review. Ask questions, make observations, bring in the stuff you knowI'm interested in how the characters strike you.

Or just leave one or two words to let me know you read it and want it continued. 

Next chapter - should not take a year; Its scenes are a bit clearer in my mind. Realistically - I have two exhibitions whose openings coincide mid to late June, so I'm out of action until after then. Nothing else lined up after that apart from promise to self to create RL art website with help of Mr Sphinx. (Typical artists' calendar). So, I should be writing chapter 5 in July and August - if Book 5 doesn't have some terrible effect on it.

****

FOOTNOTES FOR FELLOW OBSESSIVES

i The _Magic Flute_ poster was a close-up monochrome photograph of a man looking up at a single light bulb but blindfolded by the body of a snake. It summed up the opera's Enlightenment tensions between reason and passion brilliantly. (Shame about the production, which was very conservative - firmly on Sarastro's side rather than the Queen of the Night's.)

ii 'The Sniper': George Weasley's moniker for Snape in Morrighan's fic "George Weasley, Shadow Man". Angel of the North argues Molly wouldn't use the term, but I can imagine her adopting some Fred and George slang as ammunition.

iii Female ministers of magic. _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find_ _Them_ mentions a female chief of the Wizard's Council, whereas the canon ministry seems to have witches in secondary positions (and male idiots like Ludo Bagman in a top job!)

iv Rowan's Tenpin Bowl still exists, but I've never been there. I was a Sarf Lundenner myself. It's opening hours are 10 am round the clock to 4am. Thanks to J L Matthews for the low-down on the true horrors of such places... 

v Socialist Workers Party - small political party well to the left of the mainstram Labour Party, but not as far-left as the Workers Revolutionary Party. Britain's voting system, however, gives very little leverage to any group that isn't fairly close to the political centre. Our Socialist and Communist Parties are taken less seriously than their equivalents on the continent, who do actually get parliamentary seats. The current conservative party, pushed way over to the Right by Thatcher, hasn't clawed its way back and seems to have lost credibility as the government's main opposition. Especially as Tony Blair behaves like the old One Nation Tories (mild, more or less well-meaning, paternalist Right.) 

vi Flanders and Swann. The quotation is from the recording 'At the Drop of Another Hat'; the song is called The Reluctant Cannibal. It concerns a young cannibal who, to his reactionary father's outrage, refuses to eat the Roast Leg of Insurance Salesman. ("I will never let another man pass my lips!" "Musta bin someone 'e ate.") The son's radical stance evaporates only when Dad points out it would be as stupid not to eat people as not to _fight_ them. Flanders and Swann were a comic song-writing duo in the 1950s. Very British. The sort-of-contemporary duo 'Kit and the Widow' are modelled very closely on them.

vii "Estuary" is an English accent, named after the area around the mouth of the Thames. It is pitched half-way between cockney and Received Pronunciation, and is de rigeur for anyone who wants to conceal their class origins, whether they reinvent themselves 'upwards' or 'downwards'. It came to the fore during the Yuppie 1980s, especially among trendy media types. Socially and politically equalising, it is, unfortunately, not particularly distinctive or musical compared to the accents of Northern England, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall and Ireland). 

viii - Glasgow is in Scotland. It's most famous slum tenement area is/was "The Gorbals". Many of the tenement blocks were torn down and replaced by large estates of high rise blocks, amongst which is Castlemilk. Glasgow was named City of Culture in the 1990s. It is famous for the art nouveau designer Charles Renée Macintosh (the School of Art was designed by him, and it's lovely). It has its posh districts and its artists and its yuppies too - and one of Britains very best theatre companies (in the Gorbals) the Glasgow Citizens Theatre. 

Blaise repressed his accent very early in his Hogwarts career. His father is a Squib, with touch and go associations with his sorceror relatives; his mother is Muggle. They are not 'natives' of the Gorbals - declassé (victims of negative equity in the Thatcher years) rather than working class proper.

iX New historicism; a branch of literary criticism that has interested some historians. It combines post-structuralist theories with a more grounded attention to historical context and non-literary texts of the same epoch. It departs from both the 'great individual author' approach to literature and the 'significant individuals' explanation of history. Classic examples are Stephen Greenblatt's "Renaissance Self-Fashioning", Jonathan Dollimore's 'Radical Tragedy' and Catherine Besley's 'The Subject of Tragedy'. Christopher Hill's books on 17th century revolutionaries aren't NH, but something of a precursor in combining literature and history. I imagine Blaise is, in secret, a very advanced, demanding student of Muggle Studies.

X Ice Cream wars. Actually not that funny. Rival owners of ice cream vans in vendettas over business territory. There were some deaths. Google has details.

Xi: Blaise's story was planned ages and ago. There are, however, similarities between it and the trapping of Slytherin students in a time warp in Anna's "Roman Holiday", which I read a few monthsback. KazVL's male Blaise from a recent chapter of "Falling Further In" is also a "subtle and intelligent" 'good Slytherin'. Have read far too many Snape-Hermiones for my own goodThe recruiting details owe a lot to Barb of "The Triangle of Prophecy' trilogy.

xi Walter Benjamin's line has been borrowed: "The Angel of History rushes backwards into the future."

xii - David Hare's play "Plenty" tells the story of an English heroine of the Resistance who finds her self shunted to the political margins in the post-war era of 50s complacency and backlash sexism. The last line, cried out on a hilltop on a beautiful sunny afternoon just at the end of the war, is a devasting flashback. "There will be days and days and days like this!". Meryl Streep took the role in the film that by rights should have been Kate Nelligan's - she created the part, and it's very difficult for anyone who saw her in it to dissiciate her with it.


End file.
